Tempered IV
by CSI Clue
Summary: As Spring rolls around, House, Cuddy, Wilson and Emily have big decisions to make. A continuation of the Tempered Series.
1. Chapter 1

_My betas for this were Lovelama and VR Trakowski, who are above all things, supportive and sweet. This is an ongoing AU serial--my universe started before any of us knew much about House's background, so I've stuck with what I created to fill the void. I hope to update every ten days or so if anyone out there is interested. You don't need to have read any of the previous story to enjoy this part, but it helps, and it can be found at my website (double U double U dot Cincoflex dot net) under the House fic button. I make no profit here, nor do I own any of the non-original characters._

Tempered IV

House glared. He was particularly good at it, given the object of his annoyance. She, however, took in his scathing glance with a little shrug of her shoulders and leaned more heavily on her cane.

"If I wanted critical and cutting remarks about my ability to paint a porch railing, I've got a wife that can do that just fine," he pointed out dryly. Marlena Farber sniffed a little, her lined mouth pursing up a bit.

"She lets you off easy, Grrreg, oont you know it. I bet she re-paints everyting after you're done."

House winced, aware that the comment was probably true. When it came to the practicalities of domestic life, he was fine at the small projects and hopelessly impatient with the larger ones. Cuddy accused him of attention deficit; he countered that anything that couldn't be done in a single afternoon was worth paying someone else to do.

In the end it became a battle, albeit a cheerful and ongoing one-upsmanship as the two of them continued to remodel Blue Brook Dairy. House had to grudgingly admit that not only did Cuddy have excellent taste, she also gave in on enough of his creature comforts to keep him happy—or at least not grumbling as much as he usually did. There were times when he ambled around the bedroom loft, or around the spacious living room and felt an old, private pride in ownership of the place.

Of course he never told Cuddy about the bodies.

He'd found the first one out along the area she'd marked off for the new koi pond, twenty feet from the back door. After his spade had hit bone on the second shovelful, House had abruptly told Cuddy to go on without him; he'd finish the job alone. When she'd gone to the nursery to pick out the fiberglass hull for the pond, House stayed behind, and carefully unearthed the skeleton, bagging up the moldering bones in a Hefty trash bag.

House estimated the victim had been buried nearly twenty-five years ago, and, given the single, efficient bullet hole in the right temple, had probably pissed off some one of the Cosa Nostra persuasion. He also knew that if Cuddy found out about the skeleton, she'd be compelled to report it, and THAT would mean a police investigation, media attention and the end of a happy, quiet home at Blue Brook.

House had other plans.

So he'd carefully taken the hefty bag out to the dump, along with a few other earmarked items and never said a word about it. In his opinion, anyone who'd pissed off the Mafia nearly a quarter of a century earlier probably wasn't being searched for anymore, although the juxtaposition did amuse him privately—the whole idea that the victim had once slept UNDER where the fishes now were was tacky but still good for a grin now and then.

But now he was constantly on the alert every time Cuddy mentioned gardening, and the closer spring came, the more she wanted to do, which was annoying as hell. He'd dug enough flowerbeds in his time for his mother, and later for Marlena Farber . . . to have to do it for Cuddy as well seemed unfair, but given the odds of her uncovering another body, necessary.

Cuddy of course was suspicious. She taunted him and demanded explanations, but he stonewalled and redirected her attention until in time she'd given up and let him do the digging, grumbling about macho-ism.

So far House had found three bodies altogether—or two and a half, since he felt couldn't count a disintegrating bowling bag with two skulls in it as a body, per se. None of these remains were younger than thirty years by his estimation, and none had any identification on them.

Mrs. Farber spoke again, breaking into his thoughts. "Ja, vell I had to come oont see it for myself. Hasi Greggie do-ink verk. Voluntarily, even. I should take a picture."

"Watch it, or I'll throw a bucket of water and make you melt," House scowled, resting the brush on the rim of the paint can and looking carefully at the section of rail he'd just painted. Mrs. Farber sniffed and shifted to the porch swing, settling on the striped cushion with a sigh. For a moment they didn't speak, sitting in the cool of the spring mid morning. A breeze made the branches stir, and fresh green smells were in the air. House wiped his hands on a rag, and didn't look at the woman off to his side.

"You're going back to Austria," he announced shortly, "And you're not planning on coming back, are you?"

Mrs. Farber sighed. "Ja, mein Liebes. I'm old, Greg, and I vant to go home."

"I thought you had one, out on South Lace Road," he replied distantly, trying not to sound hurt. Mrs. Farber gave a slow sigh, like air leaking out of a tire.

"I hat a home mit you, and then you grew up. I've been vaiting for you to make a home yourself before I could call the job finished, nicht wahr?"

"You needed to see me dead or married," House snorted. "I know which option I would have bet on."

"Ja," she agreed, making him glance at her sharply. She flashed him a knowing smile. "But I suspected your sex drrrive would win out, eventually."

"You're a perverted old lady," House told her, trying not to smile. He rose and came to sit next to her on the porch swing.

"Ha! Ziss coming from a boy who made his own Playboy trading cards?"

"I was ahead of my time," House admitted unapologetically, "Still have a few, somewhere, if the She-Beast hasn't pitched them."

"She's goot for you," Mrs. Farber nodded. "Better zan you deserve, you know."

"Sure, take her side just because you've both got uteruses," House grumbled, but gently. He sighed and looked over at Marlena, surprised to see her eyes slightly wet. She sniffled a little.

"Zorry. But it's true, mein Hasi-Greggie. You HAF a home, and I vant to be buried in mein homeland. To be next to Hermann."

House tightened his jaw. "You're not dying."

"No, but I am getting olt, boychik. I'd rasser go back to Austria on two legs zan in a box. Besides, you're settled now. A king in your own castle."

"More like the knave . . . with perks," he conceded, a twisted smirk crossing his mouth. "Although we both know who the queen is, no problem there."

"Lisa . . . " Mrs. Farber sighed. House looked at her sharply now, arching an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Schwan-ger," Mrs. Farber smiled.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"I'm tellink YOU, Mister Hot-shot Diagnostic man—schwanger, ja."

"über meinem toten Körper, Marlena—" House snapped back. "You think I'd miss something as obvious as that?"

"Ja, you vould," she replied comfortably, turning her brown gaze on him and smiling. "She doesn't know it yet herself, but I looked in her tea leaves ziss morning."

Marlena Farber's unshakable confidence; her smile and knowing eyes made the unease in House grow. He winced a bit.

"Tasseomancy doesn't predict anything except that you've come to the bottom of your tea cup. I'm telling you she's not pregnant. In fact she was riding the cotton pony . . . " House trailed off, trying to think back to exactly when he'd last noticed the tampons out.

When the moment dragged on, Marlena nodded knowingly. House flexed his hands in agitation. He sighed.

"No. I'm not daddy material. You of ALL people should know that," he muttered. "I have no interest in beings who can't take care of their own needs."

"Zat explains ze medical degree," she dryly shot back. "Of course. Vell I vouldn't vorry about it, Grrreg. She wouldn't let you near your baby anyvay."

For a moment House looked relieved; then speculative. "You may have a point. The She-Beast does put the over in overachiever. With a little careful planning I might not have to contribute anything except a few cigars and a picture sitting or two . . . "

"Babies are goot tax deductions too, I hear," Mrs. Farber added, smiling to herself.

Before either one of the could say a word more, the sound of a car approaching the driveway interrupted their conversation; guiltily they looked up as Cuddy pulled up and parked, climbing out and studying the two of them. She held a gym bag in one hand.

"Did you finish the porch railing?"

"Did you ever hear of the Emancipation Proclamation?" House called back, rising stiffly from the porch swing and reaching for his cane. Cuddy mounted the steps and flashed a smile at Mrs. Farber.

"I'll touch it up while someone has nap time---"

Mrs. Farber nodded, then tried to look innocent when House glared at her. "He did goot. Mostly."

"Mostly," Cuddy echoed, then cast a suspicious glance at House when he circled around her, his gaze intent. "What are you doing?"

"Looking at you—I thought that was obvious," House muttered. "Did you throw out my homemade Playboy trading cards?"

"What? No—I left them with the rest of your icky boyhood crap in that wooden chest you keep under the bed," Cuddy snapped back, eyeing House with concern. Mrs. Farber rose off the porch swing and shook her head.

"I'm goink to take a nap before making dinner. Grrreg—" came her soft warning, but her eyes were twinkling, and House's mouth twitched. Cuddy spoke up.

"That's fine—please, go rest, Marlena. I bought what you needed and House can help me unpack the groceries."

"First the painting, then the groceries; fine. I might as well be wearing a collar and rabies tags," he grumbled, shifting to follow Cuddy down the two porch steps. She glanced back at him in fond irritation.

"Dogs don't paint porches . . .what's gotten into you anyway?"

House paused, then lumbered past Cuddy to the car. "Nothing," he brusquely told her.

They carried the bags in, and after House had cleaned himself of paint at the sink he gave a nod towards the garage. "I'll be out."

Cuddy gave a distracted nod, shifting cans of mushrooms on the pantry shelf, her attention focused on her stock. House tugged on his leather jacket, hesitated, and then came up behind her and awkwardly kissed the crown of her head. Cuddy tipped her head back to look up in to his face.

"What's wrong?"

"Not yet," House told her quietly. Cuddy stared a moment longer and did a graceful twist and turn to look at him as she blew her bangs clear of her eyes.

"Okay," she agreed quietly. Whatever the burr was up Greg's ass, he'd reveal it eventually. Sometimes he rode for hours; sometimes he drank, with Wilson or alone, but so far he'd never failed to come back to her, and Cuddy felt that was about as reasonable as House would ever get.

He paused again at the kitchen door and eyed her once more. "And don't redo the porch."

"If you did a good job the first time, I won't have to," Cuddy pointed out patiently.

"I mean don't touch the paint. It's got VOCs in it," House muttered, and lurched out the door. Cuddy blinked a little, watching him go, and when the roar of the motorcycle rumbled away, she shook her head and felt her sense of worry grow.

Things weren't perfect between them; thank God. Most of the life they were making together was still half-bicker, half-bang, to the amusement of anyone who knew them. House hadn't let up an inch on the insulting and suggestive comments to her at work; his ability to twist an innuendo into a verbal pretzel had become an art in itself.

Cuddy kept to her balancing act, working to keep herself from either giving in or holding out too much, and oddly it worked. If anyone grumbled (and there were still a few specialists and departments that did) they didn't have too much hard evidence of favoritism.

Neither House nor Cuddy had mellowed in marriage; and yet the rhythm of their days and ways flowed on, time softening an edge here and there with imperceptible slowness.

Cuddy sighed, and wondered if House's melancholy had to do with Marlena Farber's visit.

Two days earlier the old woman had called, announcing her intention to visit Blue Brook; a situation House protested loudly, although Cuddy could tell it was mostly for show. They'd picked her up at the bus station and brought her back, where House complained as he took Marlena around to show off almost every feature of the place.

Cuddy liked having the company; Marlena was supportive and good-natured and the two of them got along well. She was due to catch a flight to Austria tomorrow; Cuddy would be sorry to see her go, but she'd be back, and there was always Christmas of course.

Then she frowned, wondering again if there was another reason for the unexpected visit. The automatic habit of thinking in negative terms came far too easily; Cuddy had looked at too many test results and scans in her lifetime not to consider Marlena's health. But the woman looked fine and complained of nothing. In any case, House hadn't even asked.

Cuddy sighed again and moved to the back door, opening it and stepping out onto the patio. The sunlight came filtering through the tall trees back here, throwing sparkles on the koi pond and dappling the flowerbeds. She noted with annoyance that House had left another stack of journals under his hammock, along with a dirty plate.

"I have better things to do on my Saturday than clean up after you, House—" she grumbled, still reaching for the plate anyway. As she bent to scoop it up, her glance fell on a little blue inked scrawl grafittied in tiny letters on the canvas edge: _Did Lisa here 04/12/07 nine stars._

She felt the sweet heat of a blush rise on her face, remembering clearly that afternoon when they'd put the hammock's construction through a rather vigorous test. House had been in a mood to tease, and Cuddy remembered being so frustrated that she'd finally sunk her nails into his ass but good, which had certainly expedited the situation.

Yes, it had certainly been a nine star afternoon, thank you very much, Cuddy grinned. Her gaze wandered around the yard, and she suddenly wondered if House had documented any of their other . . . sites.

"I'm coming!" Emily Mansfield chuffed, waddling to the front door, wishing she hadn't thought dusting was a good idea. At eight months her mobility was limited now, and yet the damned nesting instinct wouldn't stop. Wilson had threatened to lock up all the mops and sponges if she didn't slow down at least a little.

She opened the door and blinked, staring up into House's face. "Um, hi."

"Hi. Wow you're big."

"And people say you have no tact," Emily replied dryly. "James isn't here right now, House. His car needs a new muffler."

"Not here to see Wilson. Got any coffee?" House muttered, looking down as Oliver pushed his way around Emily's thigh and snuffled. Absently House reached down and petted him; Oliver's tail swept back and forth.

"Yes. Come in," Emily told him, puzzled. She made her way to the kitchen and plugged in the coffeepot, measuring out enough for two cups. House wandered in after her, eyeing the place.

"Pine sol. You're deep into it, aren't you?"

"I'm afraid so," Emily agreed. "I had to stop myself from demanding you put on booties to come in. So what's up?"

House looked uneasy. He glanced down at her belly again, his expression guarded, and seeing it, Emily blinked. "Do you want to touch it?"

"Do I have to?"

"Only if you give me a dollar first," Emily solemnly told him. House briefly grinned at that.

"Not bad. What's it like?"

"Getting uncomfortable. The kid kicks like a fiend and I have to pee constantly. Antacids are my new drug of choice."

"Nothing like chalk tongue to make it all worthwhile, " House replied. "And the horrifying knowledge that you're bringing an innocent life into a fucked up world that you'll never be able to fully protect him or her from? How's that going?"

"Sinking in," Emily admitted, watching the coffee drip down. "I've told James several times that I'd like a do over button, and he still thinks it's funny. I give it until the baby's first colicky night before he's right there with me."

"Simethicone, and earplugs," House advised, but his voice was oddly flat, and Emily looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She took her time pouring the coffee, and handed House his mug before speaking.

"Okay, enough with the fun and games. You're not here to see James which means you came to see me. Since it's the weekend and you're not wandering by to try and steal my Gravedigger, there has to be some other compelling reason why you needed to talk, House. So talk."

He leaned on the kitchen counter, looking into the depths of his cup, stalling for time and trying to think of what, exactly to say.


	2. Chapter 2

Cuddy wandered around the yard a bit, taking a moment to enjoy the mildness of the spring. The back acreage of Blue Brook was extensive, and for the most part uncleared; she liked it that way. There was enough expanse of lawn to satisfy the concept of yard, and the rise of trees surrounding the outer edges of the property gave it a cozy feel of enclosure.

She headed for the brook itself, following a path she and House had worn through the trees and underbrush. The dappled light here was beautiful on the ferns and warm dirt, and Cuddy liked the patterns they made here. She looked towards the rise, knowing on the other side the brook would be flowing through a few thickets of cattails.

It was still all so marvelous for a city girl like herself, and Cuddy liked having time to enjoy it. When she took to the woods with House he was sometimes quiet, enjoying it along with her. Other times he pointed out things that she missed: an owl's nest; a clump of Queen Anne's Lace; a beehive cunningly tucked in the underhang of a fallen log. When she asked how he'd spotted them, he had shrugged. "I look. More importantly, I see."

House was still an enigma; Cuddy wondered if she'd ever know him completely and suspected she never would—that there would always be a part of him standing off from the rest of the world, looking, and seeing.

She sighed.

And yet she loved him. He treated her as an equal, and their quiet times were as good as any of their skirmishes; as fulfilling as their moments of passion and pettinesses.

The glint of sunlight on the brook was as beautiful as ever, and as she watched, Cuddy caught sight of a pair of green jewel dragonflies skimming over the water. They moved in tandem shooting out over the surface in a delicate show of weightlessness. Holding her breath, she watched them dance on the breeze then shoot to the other bank.

Cuddy brushed her hair back with one hand. The workout at the gym had been good and she really should go shower, but it felt nice to be out in the fresh air. She hadn't wanted to go to the gym lately; most mornings it was hard to get out of bed, but right here and now felt wonderful.

Besides, there was another reason for the workout, one that House would probably sneer at, but she was determined to do anyway, whether or not he approved. She'd already proven she could be as stubborn as he was—maybe even MORE so given the right circumstances. Checking her watch she sighed and looked over the brook once more, savoring the pretty sight, then turned to head back, wishing the thought of Sauerbraten didn't make her feel so queasy.

00oo00oo00

"Cuddy . . . may be pregnant," House admitted reluctantly. He didn't look at Emily as he said it, preferring to keep his gaze on Oliver, who lay curled up in the big dog basket, resting. For a moment, the kitchen was silent, and Emily finally made her way to the refrigerator, pulling out milk and pouring some in her mug. She waved it at House, who declined with a shake of his head.

"You don't sound sure. Have you tested?"

"No," House replied, "at this point in time it's merely a suspicion, not a confirmed fact."

"Ah," Emily nodded, "a possibility, but not a certainty."

"Precisely," came the low reply. "Although my source is generally correct in an irritatingly old-fashioned way."

Emily dimpled and said nothing; Mrs. Farber was nothing if not a legend, and even James knew her infallibility on matters of weather, sports and off-track betting. Carrying her cup to the breakfast nook, Emily pulled up a chair and lowered herself into it, groaning a little. House watched her and shook his head.

"You're not surprised. Or commenting about my hesitation here."

"I'm not, and I don't need to. The only thing I'm curious about is why you're not talking to LISA about this, seeing how she's the other significant party in the process."

"Stop sounding like Wilson," House snapped, but with less annoyance than usual. He shifted away from slouching over the counter and made his way to the nook, settling in opposite his hostess.

She shrugged. "You must have talked about this scenario prior to getting married."

"We did. Sort of," House replied with an exasperated sigh. "What we agreed on was that if we ever got into this situation again, we'd take—"

Emily waved a hand in his face. "—Whoa, whoa, keyword 'again'?"

It was odd to see House blush, Emily thought. His reputation for shamelessness and chutzpah was legendary, but the pink flush over his thin cheeks was no hallucination. His mouth twitched. "—Again. We had a false alarm back in November."

"False as in late; or false as in . . . ?" Emily asked delicately. House met her eye somewhat defiantly.

"Late. Seems that the tiny distraction of being shot and hospitalized left us a little behind in the pill department—at least HER pills."

Emily nodded, and rubbed her abdomen absently, wishing the contraction would loosen up. She'd been dealing with a few odd Braxton-Hicks throughout the week, and it was getting annoying. She gestured to House with her free hand to continue. He gave an exaggerated shrug in return.

"House—what did you actually discuss last time?"

"That if the situation ever came up again we'd deal with it appropriately," he muttered. Emily looked at him dryly.

"Which is guy talk for 'we dodged a bullet and we're NOT talking about it.'"

"Hey, you can afford to be glib; you WANTED a bun in the oven," came the cranky retort.

Emily drew in a deep, calming breath. "So you have doubts. It's pretty common and pretty natural, House, especially for a man in your situation. You've been single most of your life, you live with chronic pain and you hate any sort of change to your routine that you yourself don't initiate. That's a lot to deal with."

"I don't play well with others---it's been documented since kindergarten," he admitted, half in sour jest, half in earnest. "I'm not fatherhood material except in the barest biological sense."

"And yet . . . " Emily began, then stopped. House eyed her, waiting for the statement to be finished. She said nothing, her eyes on him.

He sneered back. "And yet nothing."

"And yet," she continued serenely, "you get along well with kids in general. The only clinic patients you're actually GOOD to are kids, House. You're never condescending, you're fairly patient with them—sure their parents are idiots but as for the children themselves---"

"—they're not MY kids!" House snarled. "I'm not responsible for them twenty-four seven! I can dose them or vaccinate them and bounce them out on their sore little asses within twenty minutes! I don't have to clean them, feed them, or decide what play outfit or college they need! It's easy to deal with other people's little people when you can limit the contact."

During this entire outburst, Emily sat watching House alertly. She kept her expression neutral, and when he glowered into his coffee, she spoke. "So ask Lisa to have an abortion."

He winced; deep in the middle of that pained expression was a clear hint of something Emily suspected might be there, and she sighed inwardly when she saw it.

"I . . . . can't do that."

"Not this time, huh?" Emily probed. House gazed at her, and then bit his lips in defeat. She shifted in the chair, rubbing her stomach once more. "What makes this situation different from the last one, House?"

He spoke slowly and heavily. "Because she's my wife. Because if there was anyone on the planet who'd do the absolute best for a kid it would be Lisa. Because she won't say it to me, but I know she wants a baby."

Emily nodded sagely, catching his little slip; House almost never referred to his wife by anything other than her maiden name. She cleared her throat. "And the deeper reason YOU don't want one?"

House stared at her, his gaze blue and bleak. Emily stared back, feeling an odd compassion for the stubborn man sitting across from her. He growled. "I've given you my reasons."

"You've given me your rationale, House. The glib and easy answer, but we both know there's more to it, otherwise you'd already be talking to Lisa."

00oo00oo00

The tiny prickle of panic that had been growing in House's chest was much larger now, and he gritted his teeth, not used to dealing with this sort of issue anymore. Ever since Farber's smug proclamation he'd been holding the anxiety at bay, but here he was, sitting with a mental health professional for God's sake, fighting to justify his mindset.

This was . . . SO not his thing.

But another part of him understood the odd compelling need to air the situation, and much as he appreciated Wilson's capacity to listen, the man was too damned close to everyone involved to have any sort of objectivity. No, better to make Doctor Mansfield earn her money this time around.

"If you're looking to peel back the layers of my ego, it may take a decade," he retorted. "Wilson Jr. will already be in preteen puberty angst."

"Be that as it may, you've got something on your mind, House, and I have a suspicion it has a lot to do with your own childhood."

"Who has the glib answers now?" he muttered feeling defensive, "When in doubt, blame the upbringing—is that the sort of tripe they're still pushing in Shrink 101?"

Emily slammed her coffee cup down hard enough to make Oliver whine; House flinched at her action, eyeing her uneasily. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again, calm once more as she leaned forward as much as she could. "It's interesting that in the entire time you've been sitting here, you've been forthcoming and honest, Greg—all the way up until I mentioned your childhood. You went for the redirect and threw in an insult to make the distraction more effective, but it stands out pretty obviously. You want to keep your past a dark secret, that's fine by me—I've got a full calendar coming up for the next eighteen years—but if you're convinced you're going to be a crappy dad because bad things happened to you when you were a kid, then I can assure you you're wrong. We do NOT become our parents, House. We rise above."

The silence in the kitchen reigned for a long moment, and House concentrated on fighting the lancing pain in his thigh. He was tense and that meant all his muscles were reacting, even the phantom ones.

Across from him, Emily winced once more and House sighed. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we don't actually follow the roles laid down for us and sometimes on us but the odds are against it, so why take a chance?"

Emily smiled. "Because the risks in life are what keep us moving forward, Greg. And look at it this way—whatever evil influence you think you'll have, Lisa will more than counter it, yes?"

House said nothing, but the sharp pang of something desperately hopeful within his chest hurt. He rose up, taking his cup and hers to the sink; Emily began to protest. "Hey I wasn't done with that—"

"Sure you are. And you might want to call Jimmy and get him check on your contractions there—I timed them at fifteen minutes apart so far," House muttered. She shook her head, but House gave her a slightly exasperated look and shrugged. "Oookay fine. You're still hours from the hard pushing anyway. Glad we had this little chat."

She looked mulish; an expression House was already familiar with at home, but bit her lip and pulled out her cell phone just the same.

House lingered, waiting until she'd reached Wilson, trying to act nonchalant, even grinning at the squawk that came from the cell phone. He slipped out, leaving Emily to calm the man down, and headed for his bike.

He rode.

Normally House had no compunction about taking off, particularly on a weekend; it was one of the undiminished joys of his life, to maintain that freedom to soar out along the highway. Cuddy came along occasionally, but somehow she understood it was his solitary pleasure and kept to her own pursuits and social life on Saturdays, more than willing to rendezvous with him once they were back for the evening. House had explored most of the roads within a seventy mile radius of Blue Brook, but today he turned back for the dairy, his mind full. He reached home within half an hour and rolled the bike into the garage, then stepped into the lift for the second floor, and the master bedroom.

Cuddy was asleep. House stood in the doorway of the elevator, just looking at her curled up on her side, already rounding up for warmth. Very quietly he lurched in and made his way to the bedside, drawn here in the quick, instinctive way he always was when saw her asleep. He lifted the sheet and looked at her carefully.

The objective medical point of view House had wanted to use rapidly evaporated at the sight of her adorable naked ass and mocha spaghetti strap tee shirt, and even as he growled to himself House felt the undeniable surge of arousal tingle through him.

He lifted the sheet higher.

"When you're done ogling my butt would you mind either getting in or putting the sheet back down?"

"I'm not ogling, I'm studying. How can I stay a connoisseur of the gluteus beauteous if I don't work your ass off?"

"House—" Growling a little, Cuddy rolled over to face him, vastly improving the view, as far as House was concerned. He reached over his shoulders to pull his tee shirt off, clawing it over his head in one swift move, then reached for his belt buckle. Cuddy propped her head on one hand and watched him, a small smirk on her face. "What do you think you're doing? Farber's downstairs!"

"And she should stay there," he grunted, stepping out of his pants and shifting to climb into the bed. "But if you're thinking of inviting someone for a threesome—"

"—Not interested, unless it's David Duchovny," she replied sweetly, sliding her arms around House's ribs. He pouted momentarily, but Cuddy grinned and kissed House soundly. "Kidding. Mostly."

"Right," he grunted, but he already had his arms around her and was nosing her neck. "You smell good. What are you doing in bed at noon anyway?" House tried to make the question nonchalant. Cuddy sighed and reached down under the covers.

"I just got tired, that's all. The workout was more tiring than I realized, and since it's the weekend I thought I'd take a nap." As she spoke, Cuddy's hands were moving busily, and House lay back, his eyes half-closed in bliss.

"Unnnnnnn . . . . "

"I found your note," she added, shifting her stroke a bit. House sighed with pleasure and tried to focus on her words but it was damned difficult. She was draped over his right side, close and warm and smelling like musk and heaven.

"Note?"

"On the hammock. Nine stars, huh? What's the top of the scale?"

"Keep stroking and you'll top more than the scale, She-Beast," He warned and Cuddy laughed with just enough lewdness to make his pulse jump.

"I intend to—" she purred, "Toe-ta-lee."


	3. Chapter 3

Emily looked over at Wilson and sighed. He was working on charting, sitting quietly in the corner of the room, to all intents and purposes completely at ease. She could tell by the set of his rangy shoulders, though, that a low-level tension was still there through his spine. Carefully setting down her crocheting, she cleared her throat. "I'm fine."

"I know you're fine," came his distracted little comment, which he followed up with a quick glance and a smile. "I just thought it would be better if I were . . . closer."

"James, nothing is happening. They're going to let me go in about half an hour because it's a false alarm," Emily pointed out. "I'm not in labor."

"I'm aware of that," he sighed, setting down his pen, "in an intellectual way--through a medical perspective. It's just that the anticipatory daddy inside of me isn't calming down yet."

Emily grinned. She stretched one leg out and flexed her bare toes, making a happy little groan as she did so, then repeated the gesture with the other foot. Wilson watched her with affection and exasperation. "I resent that you're so relaxed about all this, you know that."

"I was thinking of going home and taking a nap."

"Sure you're not going to wash the sheets, dust the dressers and scrub the baseboards before you do?" Wilson teased, "Or is it safe for me and Oliver to tread with dirty paws once more?"

"Your paws are always dirty," Emily intoned flirtatiously. "That's why it's fun to clean you up."

"No fair," Wilson grumbled through a twisted grin. "Playing the seductive preggo card is just evil, Miss Snug."

"Yeah, well you're the one who's always in the mood," she replied with a pleased little grin. "I never knew fertility was such a turn-on for you."

"Me either," Wilson admitted with a roll of his eyes. "But you're extra sexy when you're pregnant and that's just something we'll have to live with."

"Poor us," Emily grinned. Her expression shifted a second later and she pressed a hand to the small of her back; Wilson got up and came over to her, concerned.

"Em?"

"I felt that one. Damn it, if House was right, I will be SO pissed—" she growled. Wilson's brows drew together.

"House?"

"He came by before I called you—he was the one who said my contractions were about fifteen minutes apart," she admitted, looking up in to Wilson's slightly alarmed face.

"What did he come by for?"

Emily shook her head. "Confidential. Nothing about you, I promise, she added. Wilson squatted down next to her bed and looked mildly annoyed.

"This sucks. I've been his friend for over ten years, and does he actually confide in me? No. No, he decides to take up his personal baggage with my fiancé as she's going into labor—"

"Oh calm down," Emily grunted. "I'm not in labor. We need to go home and feed Oliver."

"Not until we're both sure you're not in labor."

"I'm not," she protested, glaring at him, reaching out to snag his tie and pull him over to her.

Wilson sighed. "Don't do that—it makes me want to have sex with you."

"Everything makes you want to have sex with me," Emily pointed out sweetly, "that's part of the fun. Hurry up and get me out of here so I can go home and finish scrubbing the broiler pan."

Wilson looked down at her hand curled around his necktie. "So you're not going to tell me what House said, and you're going to scrub a broiler pan instead of . . . playing pirate."

"No I'm not, and we can play Capture the Scullery Maid if you get me out of here." She pulled him down and rubbed her nose against his tenderly.

Wilson smiled and spoke against her lips. "I think you're the only woman on the planet who multi-tasks sex games with nesting instinct. Let me go talk to the doctor."

00oo00oo00

Marlena Farber moved efficiently around the kitchen, slicing onions and setting them aside in a small bowl. She hummed to herself, and shot an occasional glance over at the long figure slouched at the kitchen table, bent over a racing form.

"Hasi—" she murmured quietly. He looked up from the form at her, slightly distracted.

"She says she started this afternoon," he commented in a soft little voice, and turned back to the paper on the table. Mrs. Farber paused a moment, her expression softening a bit. She leaned her hands on the counter.

"I'm sorry."

"Too early for that," he replied in the same soft voice. "Spotting isn't the same as bleeding, Marlena. She'll need to test by tomorrow."

"Need to?" Mrs. Farber questioned, her eyebrows going up. House nodded slowly and circled a name on the paper.

"Yep. If the She-Beast is carrying evil spawn, she's going to need to start vitamins and get some pre-natal care as soon as possible."

Mrs. Farber cocked her head and moved over to House, reaching one cool hand towards his shoulder. He relaxed a little under her familiar touch. "Haf you talked to her?"

"Nope. I need you to talk to her."

"Me?" she protested softly. "Grreg, no, I'm not ze person she needs—"

He looked up at her, his eyes sharp and very blue. "Marlena . . . you're the closest thing to a . . . parent . . . that either one of us has any more. I'm still not sure exactly how I feel about a kid, and Cuddy will pick up on that. No, I need you to do that discreet motherly thing you do so well."

"Oooh, a compliment . . . I can die heppy now," Mrs. Farber dryly commented. House sighed dramatically.

"Fine, you want the truth? I'll screw it up. If I tell her to take a test she'll either balk or get angry and either way it comes back she'll be pissed at me."

"Yah, I could see zat," Mrs. Farber nodded. House looked pained, and circled another name on the form.

"Therefore, I need you to play Old World Midwife and get my She-Beast to pee on a stick, which I happen to have—" House fished in his jacket pocket, "—right here."

"A schtick. In mein day it vus a rrrrabbit test," she sniffed, reluctantly pocketing the pregnancy test in her apron.

"In your day it was urine on bags of wheat to see what germinated," House replied loftily. "Good thing the Pharaohs had plenty of grain."

That earned him a light rap on the head with a wooden spoon; he turned to glare up at her, but Mrs. Farber glared back.

"Go vash your hands, oont use soap."

House rose and attempted to slink out with dignity, but it wasn't a success. Moments after he left, Cuddy sauntered in, decked out in a sundress, yawning a little and dropping a hand over her mouth in apology. "S-s-s-sorry. I don't know why I'm so tired lately . . . "

"Because you vork too hard oont you haf Gregg to look after as vell," came the resigned reply. Cuddly snickered and moved to the refrigerator, taking out a head of lettuce. She moved next to Marlena and began to wash it at the sink, neither woman speaking for a moment. Then Marlena cleared her throat.

"Anosser reason comes to mind too, Lisa, mein liebling. Somesing I don't know if you've considered . . . " Her slightly nervous tone made Cuddy look over at her questioningly.

"I'm probably just iron-deficient—I have vitamins but I get rushed in the mornings and don't take them a lot of times."

"Yah, but not dat," Mrs. Farber replied. "I vos tinking you may be . . . schwanger."

"Schwanger?" Cuddy repeated, confused. "Is that some Austrian fatigue syndrome?"

"Not kvite," Mrs. Farber hemmed. "More like—" she gestured to her stomach, rounding a hand over it. Cuddy blinked.

"Putting on weight?" She shook her head firmly. "I've been pretty good about watching the scale. Although it HAS been tough to keep running in the morning—"

"--No, no, no, no, Schatzi; schwanger—pregnant," Mrs. Farber broke in with a little chuff of exasperation. "Mit child."

Cuddy blinked a little, then vigorously shook her head, eyes wide. "Nnnnnnnno. My period was late, yes, but I started spotting right after Greg and I—uh, after we got up from our nap," she replied, a little pink in the face. "That tells me it's coming, so no. Not pregnant."

Mrs. Farber looked at her; Cuddy looked back, trying to appear nonchalant, but the longer the stare went on between them, the more self-conscious she became. "what?"

"Shpotting."

"Yes," Cuddy nodded, her pretty brows drawing together, "Shp--er—spotting. It's the start, I promise you." She began fishing the utility drawer for a knife, quickly finding one to her liking.

"Maybe . . . you shoult check. Just to be zertain, nu?" Mrs. Farber murmured gently. "You're probably right and I'm beink a foolish old voman, but vat's a quik five minute test, eh?"

Cuddy laughed a little. "Oh come on, it would be a waste of money, and besides I don't even have—"

Mrs. Farber reached in her apron pocket and pulled out the stick, laying it on the counter. Cuddy looked at it and then at the other woman. "You're . . . serious."

"Ja," Mrs. Farber nodded slowly. "Call me cautious, but it vould be nice to be sure."

There was a long pause, quiet and slightly tense. Then, Cuddy stabbed the head of lettuce, the gesture dramatically vicious as she left the knife quivering in the unfortunate vegetable.

Mrs. Farber gave a tiny smirk.

"Not. A. word. To. Him." Came the low order. Mrs. Farber nodded. Cuddy scooped up the stick, staring at it a moment, then sighed and slipped out the doorway of the kitchen.

Marlena Farber closed her eyes, listening. There was the slam of the bathroom door. Then the sound of House climbing out of his recliner and walking across the living room. For a long while after that nothing; then the flush of a toilet.

She found herself holding her breath. Marlena Farber wasn't an overtly religious woman; she attended church regularly because it gave her a sense of peace and order, nevertheless she offered up a quick wordless prayer in the quiet of the kitchen, hoping and fearing all in the same moment.

Some marriages didn't survive moments like this, she knew.

The silence grew; absently Mrs. Farber checked the sauerbraten in the oven and moved to pull the knife from the head of lettuce. She chopped the salad, still keeping an ear out for any sound from the rest of the house.

Finally she couldn't take it a moment longer and untied her apron. Just as she laid it over one of the chairs, she heard footsteps and looked up. Both House and Cuddy were coming through the kitchen door, their expressions unreadable.

"Zupper is ready . . . " Mrs. Farber murmured, watching Cuddy's face closely. The other woman nodded, not meeting her eyes. House thumped his way to the head of the table and sat down heavily.

Still nothing.

Mrs. Farber served up the sauerbraten, carefully setting moderate portions for herself and Cuddy, then a larger one for House, along with an extra napkin. He noted that and rolled his eyes. Cuddy snickered.

"I don't spill." House groused.

"Of course not—you inhale it too quickly for much to drop on the table or your shirt."

"I don't inhale; I eat with gusto."

"I've seen hyenas with better table manners," Cuddy murmured.

"That's not saying a lot for Farber's cooking," came House's retort. "Maybe you'll have better luck with our kid than she did in getting me to use the right fo—"

He stopped mid-sentence, looking chagrined. Cuddy's nostrils flared, and she turned the laser heat of her gaze on him, her fury rising like a tidal wave.

"You."

House said nothing, but swallowed, and tried to hold his ground. Fascinated, Mrs. Farber watched, her gaze going from one to the other, like a spectator at a tennis match. Cuddy's grip on her fork tightened and she jabbed it in House's direction. "YOU." She repeated, clearly caught on the pronoun.

"I," House agreed, finally facing her wrath, his expression still wary. "We've established my identity—or are you making an accusation, Miss I-sleep-with-no-panties-on?"

"House!" Mortified, Cuddy looked ready to fling the utensil at his face. Mrs. Farber cleared her throat. Loudly.

They both looked at her. She reached out for one of Cuddy's hands then one of House's, gripping them tightly. "Schtop it," she ordered in a deadly quiet voice. "Benehmen Sie sich!"

"She started it," House whined. Cuddy thinned her lips and glared at him. Mrs. Farber squeezed each of their hands a little harder; both House and Cuddy winced.

"Oont I am finishing it, ja? Lissen up goot. You are doctors, oont you know vat options you haf here. Choices, alvays. If parrrenthoot is not for you, zat's fine. Don't assume it is, or zat ze osser vun of you doesn't vant it. Sie bilden mich also Umkippen, die ich nicht Englisch sprechen kann!" she growled.

A quick smirk appeared on the corner of House's mouth as he translated. "You have me so upset I can't even speak English. It's okay—the wrath of Farber is international," he rolled his eyes.

She squeezed his hand again and he manfully tried not to flinch. Mrs. Farber spoke again, menacingly. "I mate lemon loaf for dessert. Don't make me flush it down ze potty."

"You wouldn't dare. First of all the sheer logistics of getting an entire pound cake down a toilet is . . . mind-boggling," House widened his eyes at the thought. "Secondly, even you aren't that heartless."

Mrs. Farber glared at him, and after a moment of the showdown, Cuddy began to snicker. Her silent giggles grew louder, and eventually even Mrs. Farber began to smile, cracking under the strain. House fought it, but eventually even he smirked, shaking his head. They sat around the table, their laughter slowly building up, and eventually Cuddy sighed, leaning back a little.

"God, what would the plumber say?"

"Probably some crack about someone pinching too big a loaf," House replied, setting them all off again for a moment.

Finally, Mrs. Farber squeezed their hands once more, and cleared her throat again. When she had their attention, she drew a deep breath. "Okay, enough. Ve neet to discuss vat we are goint to do. Ze qvestion is zimple: Do you vant ziss baby?"

The answers overlapped in quick succession.

"No," Cuddy murmured.

"Yes," House mumbled.

House and Cuddy looked at each other across the table. "What?" they bleated at the exact same time.

Mrs. Farber sighed again.


	4. Chapter 4

House rose up, the dramatic effect ruined slightly as his napkin dropped into his half-eaten dinner. "Ohhh no, no, no--You want a kid, She-Beast. I know everybody lies, but this is taking it a little to the extreme," he snarled, pointing a finger in her direction. "The hours in Pediatrics; the visits to the Cancer ward and Maternity; it's always been evident in the focus of your time not spent slave driving me."

"And you don't want one—you made that pretty clear the LAST time we thought it might happen!" Cuddy snapped, rising herself and leaning on the table. "Deal with it maturely my ass!"

"Schut UP, bose of you! I don't vant to know vat each of you tinks ze osser vants, I vant to know vat you vant!" Mrs. Farber bellowed loudly, interrupting the argument. Both House and Cuddy looked at her, startled into silence for a moment. Mrs. Farber turned a steely-eyed look at Cuddy, pinning the woman with her gaze.

Cuddy, who normally chewed up corporate sponsors for breakfast and terrorized nine tenths of the students and staff at Princeton-Plainsboro on a regular basis, flinched. "I don't want to go first."

"Tough. Noogies," Mrs. Farber shot back. "Shpill."

Cuddy made a pained face. "Okay. I . . . wouldn't . . . mind . . . a baby."

"Ha!" House triumphantly interjected. "I knew it!"

"Not your turn, Hasi-Greggie," Mrs. Farber warned. He tried to protest, but she added. "Ah-ah-ah. Lemon loaf, ka-floosh."

He closed his mouth, reluctantly.

Mrs. Farber kept her gaze on Cuddy. "All rrrright zen. Goot. You're be-ink honest. You vouldn't mindt a baby. Even mit one half of it Greg's DNA."

Cuddy shifted her gaze from Marlena Farber to House, who blinked at her, uncharacteristically silent.

She drew in a breath. "Even with."

"Goot. Now you, Grreg."

"The matter's pretty much settled; doesn't look like you two even need my input," he mumbled defensively, but he didn't look trapped as he stood there, leaning over the table. Mrs. Farber shook her head.

"It's not mein baby; it's yours, liebling."

"It's not a baby; it's a zygote, barely more than a cluster of cells at the moment. Don't sentimentalize this just to force the issue, Marlena."

"I'm not," she replied softly. "I'm trrrrying to get the two off you to face fackts. You neet to be honest if you don't vant this."

House drew in a deep breath. "I don't mind a baby either, I just . . . don't want . . . . to be a father."

Cuddy stared at him, wide-eyed and hurt. Marlena however, reached over for House's forearm, patting it gently.

"What?" Cuddy whispered, her throat tight as she fought a prickle of tears. House sighed harshly at her expression, rolling his eyes.

"Christ! I knew this was going to happen. This is why we should have stuck to latex, damn it! Look, a baby is fine, okay? You've always wanted one, now one's coming, I'm doing good with the concept, both in the abstract and concrete, She-Beast. You will be a fabulous mother, no matter what bullshit I've said to the contrary, because your track record in dealing with bull-headed egotists with stubborn personalities is well-established. Whatever exciting combination our various chromosomes dish out, you'll love it, care for it, worry over it and give it three times more attention than it possible handle. You. Will. Do. FINE."

Cuddy blinked, and turned away, wrapping her arms around her stomach protectively. Marlena leaned towards her, but Cuddy shook her head and quickly left the kitchen.

House didn't go after her; he kept leaning on the table, pushing so hard on it his fingers went white. He let his head hang down. "Ooh that went over well."

Mrs. Farber looked from the empty doorway and them back to House, her expression confused; wary. "She doesn't know about--?"

House shook his head very slowly. "No. Never told her."

"Greg---" Mrs. Farber blinked rapidly, "Mein gott--Sie müssen erklären ihr!"

"A little late now, don't you think?" came his bitter reply. "She's not really in a mood to hear about precisely why I'm . . . reluctant."

"Lisa deserves to know!" Farber hissed back, rubbing her eyes under her glasses. "Don't you see? She's assooming you vood at least try."

"No." House's gaze grew cutting and cold. "I've made it a mission in life to be as UN-like him as possible in every way, Marlena. That includes his dubious parenting . . . skills."

Mrs. Farber got to her feet and smacked her hands on the table, making the dishes jump. "So DO it Grrrreg. Your fasser vas a bastard—oont ve bot know zat—Zo BE different, Ja? Vork to be vot he vas NOT."

House blinked, stunned and a little frightened of the steel in Marlena Farber's tone. She rarely spoke of the past, and almost never let her true feelings about John House come out. Nevertheless, her emphatic plea held mingled hints of pain and frustration, and behind her glasses, her eyes were already wet.

He wavered, torn between hugging her and following Cuddy. Mrs. Farber blinked hard, her muttering a low litany of pain. "Gott, I blame myself . . . ven he ordered me out, ven he pushed you oont punished you, all to make you schtrrrong . . . all of it—"

Her words were cut off by the sudden roar of a motorcycle.

00oo00oo00

She rode.

Having been out with House often enough, Cuddy knew how to handle the bike. Before this, it had always scared her slightly, but now worrying about the damned motorcycle was the last thing on her mind. After the first three miles, she found herself wondering where the hell she was going.

Not the hospital, God no. Ducking in there was too predictable, and would only guarantee a huge audience for the showdown with House when he found her. Not Princeton-Plainsboro.

Not Wilson's home either—that would be the second place House would look for her. Cuddy thought hard, and an idea came to her. She turned off the highway and headed north. After a drive of nearly twenty bone-rattling minutes, she pulled into the trailer park and slowed the motorcycle down, looking around the place carefully. The large green one loomed up on the left, and she turned towards it, slowing down. The bike rolled to a stop along the asphalt area out in front, and Cuddy waited for a moment as she cut the engine and let the rumble under her die away. She pulled off her helmet and climbed off, aware of how wobbly her legs felt when she fished for her purse out of the saddlebag.

Carefully Cuddy made her way up the three steps as she fumbled through the ring of House's keys in her hands. He had a hell of a lot of them, she noted ruefully, including several copies of PPTH ones he hadn't been issued. When she was feeling a little more angry and a little less hurt she'd make sure to confiscate them.

Cuddy found a likely choice and stuck the old key into the door lock, opening the trailer. The warm still air, tinted with the scent of leather-bound books and a hint of mildew greeted her nose. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

It was dim, and dusty, disturbed only by her moving forward. Cuddy looked around at the little sanctuary and breathed in.

The scent of Greg was here.

She let her purse fall from her shoulder and burst in to tears.

Cuddy groped her way to the sofa and curled up on it, crunching herself up in a tight, protective ball as she sobbed, hard and uncontrolled, letting the spasms wrack her frame. Her thoughts crowded in a swirl of raw emotion, unformed and furious.

_Doesn't WANT it . . . Fuck him! A divorce then . . . I can—WE can live without him . . . Damn it, damn it, too good to last, I should have known he'd make me choose---so why the hell do I love him so? Why do I let him DO this to me? When will I learn . . ._

When she was all cried out, nearly an hour later, and her sobs had settled down into hiccups, Cuddy lifted her face from her arms and realized she was cold. Wiping a thin hand over her hot, wet face, she glanced at her watch, and tried to straighten out, feeling the tingles where her limbs had gone to sleep.

Oddly, she felt better, even if she hadn't resolved much of anything. Her tension was gone and she felt wrung out, but peaceful. With a sigh, Cuddy pressed a hand to her lower abdomen, patting it gently. "I don't usually cry . . . much," she murmured, then felt silly, talking aloud to something statistically the size of a peppercorn.

She got to her feet and looked around; spotting the door to what she assumed was the bathroom. It was, and Cuddy used it, noting that she wasn't spotting anymore. After washing her face in the tiny sink, she wiped her cheeks with the hand towel and stepped out again, looking at the place.

Shelves of books, hundreds of them, from paperbacks to thick oversized hardbacks filled the shelves. They filled the shelves and sat in neat stacks in corners of the trailer, along with file boxes of medical journals and CDC bulletins. Even the tiny former kitchen area had bookshelves in it. Cuddy moved towards it, seeing the little refrigerator under the counter, wondering if there was anything to drink inside. She squatted down to pull the handle, and stopped when she noticed a picture stuck on the door with magnets.

It was a copy of their only photo from the wedding—the one from Wilson's cell phone.

Staring at it, Cuddy remembered with goose bump clarity how she felt that day standing on the beach, looking at the tall, nervous man opposite her. The man with the soulful blue eyes and sneakers.

They stood together, both of them surprised by Wilson's candid shot, and Cuddy noted House's arm around her shoulders, the glint of his ring in the afternoon light. She reached out and touched the photo, looking at the pair of them.

"Greg . . . " Cuddy whispered, as other memories came crowding in on her. His voice echoed in her head clearly, his words of the night before their wedding.

"_Lisa—shut up and listen. I'm not GOOD with people, kids least of all. I know that. YOU know that. But if in the course of human events, AKA our consummated marriage there comes a time when another 'oops' happens, I don't want you to automatically assume anything."_

He'd said that; she remembered. And here she was, making assumptions . . . Cuddy drew a breath and yanked on the handle, opening the fridge. Inside, in the feeble light, she saw four beers and two bottled waters; snagging one, she rose up and uncapped it, drinking a third of it down in cold chugs, grateful for the taste.

"You don't want me to make assumptions. Jesus, Greg, it's hard not to when you tell me you don't want to be a father—" she grumbled aloud, walking back to the sofa. The muffled sound of her cell phone rose up from the inside of her purse. Cuddy ignored it and sat down again, stretching out a bit more on the comfortable, well-worn cushions. She took another sip of water. "Honestly, what am I supposed to think here? That I'm going to have to go it alone because you're too—" she stopped, frowning a little.

Cuddy spoke again after a few seconds, repeating herself. "I'm going to have to go it alone because you're too . . . afraid? No. No, that can't be it. It can't be as simple as that, not with you Greg. I refuse to believe that the great, limping bastard of Princeton-Plainsboro is a damned coward . . . "

And yet the idea persisted. Cuddy mulled it over thoughtfully. House certainly wasn't sentimental about kids; he was direct with them, and fair. She assumed it was because he related to their general non-pretentiousness, preferring it to the foibles of their parents.

House was even tolerantly good with babies; something he'd deny to his deathbed.

So why the fear? Cuddy pondered. Was it just the terror of commitment for the next eighteen years or so? An insecurity about taking on a new role? Jealousy that her attention would be divided?

Cuddy shook her head, at a loss for understanding. She'd known the man for years, loved him with a fierce and exasperated joy, and still, there were depths and shallows to him that she'd never fully grasp.

00oo00oo00

He'd never felt this damned . . . .feeling before. House scowled, gripping the steering wheel more tightly, letting his knuckles go white as he sat thinking. Analytically he considered it.

Not pain, but pain was in it. Not panic, but there was enough adrenaline flowing to keep him hyper acute. Not anger, but the black edges of rage were seething just behind the cold, rational part of his thinking at the moment.

All of it mingling and boiling, rising up until he struggled to choke it down again, fighting to keep it away from the pragmatic side of his immediate actions.

Kissed Farber, told her to wait by the phone. Took the car, started for PPTH, trying to reason out where the She-Beast would go.

Once there he'd pulled into the parking lot of the adjoining park and started thinking things through a little more calmly.

Not the hospital. Too obvious and in her state, the last thing she'd want would be to be seen by anybody there. Not Wilson's—that would lead to a lot of questions from Emily and Jimmy. Not anyone of her friends—she liked them, but not enough to show up crying on anyone's doorstep . . .

_Despair,_ House realized dumbly. _That's what it is: despair_.

He glanced down at the spare key in the ignition, thinking hard. Cuddy had both sets of keys, and between the two rings that meant access to a lot of places . . . but only a few within driving distance. Or more specifically riding distance. House scowled harder at the thought of Cuddy on the Honda, racing down the road. It was a big bike, even for him, and in her state of mind—resolutely he pushed that thought away and concentrated once more.

Privacy. What she wanted would be privacy . . . and there was one place she knew about . . . and had access to now, with his keys.

House started the ignition once more, and pulled out of the parking lot, relieved to have a destination in mind.


	5. Chapter 5

He turned into the trailer park and made it a point to leave the car one section over. House pulled out his cane, hoping Cuddy hadn't locked the door behind her; he wasn't thrilled with the idea of a loud and public conversation through it but if push came to shove, he'd do it. Walking carefully along the asphalt, House made his way to the old green trailer and studied the windows. No light, but then again, it wasn't dark yet either.

Slowly, he climbed the three steps, trying to stay quiet. Carefully he gripped the handle and turned it; unlocked. Glad of this little victory, he pulled the door open and stepped inside, looking for Cuddy.

She was there, on the old sofa, looking unsurprised to see him. Her eyes were still slightly red, and she was brushing her hair back from her face. He stood at the door a moment just to study her.

"Bad She-Beast. No bike. NO," he muttered. Cuddy drew in a breath, but her bland expression didn't change.

"Fine. Give me the car keys and you can have the bike back. I'd rather drive than ride anyway."

"First, we talk," House grumbled, reaching behind him and turning the lock to the door; if worst came to worst it would at least buy him some time. He wanted Cuddy to look angry, or at the very least hurt, but the resignation in the slump of her shoulders and slack set of her beautiful jaw line scared him a little.

"Go ahead. You talk then, because at the moment I've got nothing to say, Greg. Go for it, the floor's all yours."

House lumbered over to the sofa and dropped onto it heavily, thumping his cane twice as he pursed his mouth and took a second to organize his thoughts. Tough audience—possibly the toughest he was ever going to face.

"When I was a kid," House began slowly, "I didn't get along too well with my dad. He had these crazy ideas about me keeping my room clean, and trying out for certain sports and curfews . . . " He didn't look at Cuddy. " . . . And while we got along in terms of what made my mom happy, and the mutual appeal of heavy machinery, very nearly everything else between us was in conflict."

Cuddy said nothing, intrigued despite her efforts not to be.

House never spoke much of his childhood.

He continued, his voice mild, but deliberate. "My father saw the world in black and white, with only the occasional shade of grey as it applied to him. Manners mattered. Grades mattered. A man's hobbies weren't supposed to be passions. A man followed the rules even if they were wrong because they were the rules. A man was strong, mentally and emotionally. All that fun stuff. I grew up not only believing that it was normal to take ice baths, sleep in the yard, and be physically reprimanded when I came into conflict over these beliefs, but also accepting it as the status quo, She-Beast. In my limited social world of military bases, pretty much every other kid I knew had fathers just as demanding and just as . . . pragmatically ruthless."

"Greg—" She whispered, feeling a sense of cold horror seep through her. He turned a bleak face to her, his eyes cold.

"No—stop right there. I'm not taking pity from you or anybody else. It's the most useless emotion on the planet. Just listen. In my world, this was not abuse, or child endangerment or neglect, it was the way of life. I grew up with this as the norm. It was the way things were, period."

Cuddy kept her silence with difficulty, her gaze locked on House's profile. He looked up, towards the ceiling.

"As I grew, so did the degree and frequency of our conflicts. I know everybody fights with his or her parents and in that respect, things were pretty average. However, two ongoing issues kept my father and me from ever fully resolving anything. One of them was the death of Molly."

"Your sister."

"Ja, as the Farber would say. I carried the blame for her death most of my life, reminded of it periodically by my dad, usually in the heat of an argument." Out of the corner of his eye, House could see Cuddy's jaw clench, and that little sign warmed him. She cared. She respected his request to keep quiet, but she cared all right. House spoke again.

"The other little thorn in his side was my rejection of the military. I refused to join—to even consider joining up--and that irritated my dad, who pointed out that I was pretty ungrateful for the travel and cultural exposure I'd had throughout my life. So in his eyes I was a free-loading baby killer who needed to grow up and move out."

"Jesus—" Cuddy blurted, "How could you put up with that?"

"I didn't," House replied simply. "I left home the day of my high school graduation. I went back for holidays, mostly to see my mom and Marlena. Other than that I've been on my own and perfectly happy with that arrangement. But the point I am trying to make here, She-Beast, is that I have not exactly had the best . . . role model for fatherhood. I've worked hard not to become a dad simply because the blueprint I've been given, sucks."

She nodded slowly. "And where the hell was your mom during all this? Or Mrs. Farber? I can't believe they'd stand by and let this . . . happen."

House turned to her, his smile gentle but his eyes clear and sharp. "Oh Cuddy, Cuddy, Cuddy . . . do you honestly think I was the only recipient of my dad's insane moral judgments?"

She froze, staring back uncertainly until he sighed. "Enough with the heartstring tugging very special after school episode of Hasi-Greggie's childhood. What it boils down to is that whatever deficits exist on my side of the parent equation, you'll tip the scales on the other side. The Evil Spawn will get the best care, the softest blankets, and the most organic goodies. Plan on breastfeeding?"

Cuddy blinked. "A little early to be considering it, don't you think?"

"Not from my perspective, rowr!" he growled appreciatively. "It's been one of my ongoing fantasies---"

"Greg, shut up. You could have said something about this to me earlier."

He shook his head. "Why? You and the rest of the world have more than sufficient theories about why my personality is warped the way it is; why feed into the clichés?"

"Because," Cuddy tried to stay calm, "I've been crying my eyes out for the last hour, convinced that at the very least you wanted a divorce."

"Well that would be stupid," House made an exaggerated face. "After all the trouble we went to in getting married in the first place? I don't take sudden changes well; you know that."

"Pregnancy is a sudden change," she responded, lightly smacking his arm. "And you were a big part of it, so don't act innocent. It's a dual responsibility."

"Pregnancy isn't sudden—there are two hundred and eighty days in the average gestation. Forty weeks, nine months, three trimesters," he replied gravely. "The better part of a year. That's my sort of transition."

Cuddy sighed. "It does seem long when you put it that way."

"Long enough to get tired of waiting for the end product, or so I hear from Jimmy. In any case, I reserve the right to be a grumpy bastard at the hospital about this—my adoring public deserves no less."

Cuddy leaned forward, rising up on her knees and bracing her hands on his shoulders. Startled, House looked up at her and she dropped down, kissing him hard, her hot little tongue swiping over his lips until they opened.

It was sweet, delicious; House reached for her, pulling Cuddy into his lap and ignoring the throb of his thigh in favor of another throb close by. Cuddy reluctantly broke off the kiss and hugged him, her face pressing along the side of his throat against the bristles.

"Fighting with you makes me horny," she whispered in an earnest little tone.

House smirked into her hair. "You think I hadn't figured that out oh, say, nine years ago?"

Cuddy was shifting slightly, nipping the tender skin under his jaw line, feeing a definite response to her teasing caresses.

"A decade of foreplay . . . that's playing it cautious."

"All out in public," he whispered back. "Pandering to the exhibitionists in us both—you can't say I haven't paid attention to you."

"Parts of me, anyway."

"Same thing."

"Shhhhh—" Cuddy murmured her hands sliding down between them as she straddled his waist. "Don't make me turn this seduction around."

"Make up sex, oh yeah---" House grunted happily. "Nothing says 'I forgive you' like a lap dance."

Cuddy chortled, her fingers working to undo his belt and tug on his zipper. House busied himself in pulling up the skirt of her sundress. He gave a low groan. "I just realized you rode my bike in a dress--Total turn-on, ba-BANG."

"Mmmm?" Cuddy murmured, caressing the eager thickness of his shaft as House lifted his hips slightly to lower his jeans. Anything further he was going to say vanished as she nipped his ear and teasingly rocked herself against the very tip of his wet erection. All House could manage was a low groan of hungry appreciation, and feeling very smug, Cuddy tugged her thong out of the way, managing a lot of teasing brushes as she did so.

"So . . . " she purred into his wet ear, "You don't mind if I go ahead and have our kid?"

Her only answer was a slightly frustrated chuffing sound. House's hands were gripping her hips under her dress, trying to force her down onto him. She nuzzled his mouth lightly and he finally growled, speaking damply against her lips. "Knock yourself out, but while you're at it, could we get on with—"

House didn't get to finish; Cuddy sleekly dropped down, taking his turgid heat within her in one glorious push; the pleasure was so intense for both of them that they groaned in harmony. With easy synchronicity, Cuddy flexed and moved in slow rhythm for long minutes, her head thrown back in pleasure. House cupped the flexing muscles of her ass, his blue eyes bright in half-lidded as he watched her.

Finally, one of his hands slid up the back of her dress, along the smooth knobs of her spine, and he pulled her forward, mouths together as the rise and fall of her body against his made their kiss wax and wane.

Cuddy writhed, her senses rapidly building to a sweet overload. She broke off the kiss and panted into his face warningly. "Squeeeezzeee--"

House gave another groan, this one needy and rough. "Oooh Christ—"

She clenched, the strong slick muscles deep inside rolling in a constrictive caress over the thick shaft pistoning within her; House's fingers dug into Cuddy's skin as he shuddered, eyes closed as he lost himself in the supernova of pleasure rocketing through his shaft. Cuddy arched forward, her own hands scrabbling his shoulders as she clung to him, only a moment or so behind, her own explosive bliss making her gasp for breath.

Cuddy slumped against House's chest, feeling blind and lost, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She could smell the ripe tang of sex around them, rich as spilled beer. House's hands gentled, moving into soft caresses down her back as he tried to get his breathing under control again. He turned his head to nuzzle her temple. "Remind me to nominate Doctor Arnold H. Kegel for the Nobel in Medicine. And Physics."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that—" She murmured, sighing deeply. "Kegels are good."

"Kegels are to a man what shoe stores are to a woman," House replied in a low, contented voice, "compelling, irresistible, and very, very satisfying."

"Mmm," she replied sleepily. "Are you going to be okay to ride home?"

"I've gotten laid twice, had sauerbraten for dinner and there's lemon loaf for dessert. I think we could call it a good day," House admitted gruffly. Cuddy pulled away and looked at him tenderly.

"And the rest of it?"

He sighed. "It's . . . good. Just don't expect too much—I'm a reluctant associate in this whole reproduction thing. You can be Doctor Babystein and I'll just be Igor."

"Doctor Babystein and Igor, bringing an Evil Spawn into an unsuspecting universe?" Cuddy snorted, exasperated but pleased. "Clearly literature lost a true poet the day you chose to go into medicine, Greg,"

House smirked. "I've always thought so."

00oo00oo00

When she heard the muted roar of the motorcycle up the driveway, Farber stopped praying and rose from post by the phone. She reached for her cane and made it to the front door as a key rattled in the lock. House stepped in, looking at her mildly.

"She's coming. We made up. Lemon loaf?"

"Goot, goot, oont in ze kitchen. So?" Mrs. Farber replied, following him as House made a beeline towards dessert. He eyed the loaf and pulled a knife from the wooden block on the counter.

"So? We're having an Evil Spawn. Do we have milk?" House muttered. "Because if we don't, this goes pretty well with beer too—"

"Milk, ja. Grrrreg!" Mrs. Farber turned in time to see him cut the loaf in half and lift up one huge section to his mouth. He tried to give her an innocent look even as his grizzled cheeks puffed out like a squirrel's and he chewed rapidly.

"Disgoosting!"

"Nein—" House replied thickly. He opened his mouth at her. "--dieses ist!"

Mrs. Farber shook her head, exasperated and at the same time delighted at his familiar antics. Lightly she reached up, smacked the back of his head and turned to get the carton out of the refrigerator.

When Cuddy walked in a few moments later, she hugged Mrs. Farber. When she pulled away and glanced over at House, he gave a knowing nod. She reached over and rubbed a hand over his chin.

"You're covered in crumbs you know."

"I needed the carbs—worked off a lot of energy a while ago," he told her, putting on his best mock-sincere expression. Cuddy blushed a little.

"Did you leave any dessert for the rest of us?"

"Debatable—what's left is mine by default, so you might want to go and sulk into one of your Yoplait cups."

Cuddy looked over at Mrs. Farber, who held out a plate with a thick slice of lemon loaf on it. The two women beamed at each other. House scanned the empty counter suspiciously. "Hey!"

"Men are so easily distracted," Cuddy commented, accepting the plate. Mrs. Farber nodded in agreement.

"Ja. Oont pawned, as ze saying goes."

House grumbled, and leaned over, his fork moving it towards Cuddy's slice. Reacting quickly, she lightly jabbed his wrist with her own utensil. "MY slice, House—back off."

He sucked in air through his teeth and rubbed his hand, eyeing her with an odd mix of annoyance and respect. "Boy, get a woman the tiniest bit pregnant and it's Jekyll and Hyde time."

Cuddy waved her fork. "That's Doctor Babystein to you, Igor."


	6. Chapter 6

Emily held in her exasperation, but barely; she was too busy trying to concentrate on Wilson's steady grip on her hand. The florescent lighting was low, and at this hour of the morning, the hospital was fairly quiet—well, everywhere but here. She groaned again as another contraction rolled through her hips, this one much more painful. Her grip tightened and Wilson manfully took the squeeze without wincing.

"Breathing okay?" he murmured, using his free fingers on his other hand to brush her damp hair back out of her face. Emily rolled her eyes towards him and glared. It wasn't fair to use him as a target; she knew that, but he was THERE, and damn it, HE wasn't the one hurting right now.

"I'm just FINE, James. Just because I'm trying to push a watermelon out of my love tunnel is NO cause for concern!"

He flinched a little, but managed a crooked smile, and she felt ashamed of snapping at him. "I know it hurts, Em, believe me."

"Yeah," she conceded softly, relaxing as the contraction began to loosen and fade. "I know it's a long process and natural, but I just want it OVER with."

"We're getting there," Wilson reassured her, glancing at the big clock up on the opposite wall of the birthing room. "That one was longer, so I think we're moving into the next phase."

"Oh goody," Emily grumbled, closing her eyes, "It's only been seven hours now."

Wilson bit back a sigh and shifted a little on the padded bedside stool, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders. So far everything had been going right on schedule, and the attending, Doctor Yang, was complacent, but Wilson wasn't as confident as he wished he was.

He hated seeing Emily in pain; it hurt him both as her lover and as a doctor. She'd been dutifully good about breathing, and even teased him about his concerns, but now that things were getting more urgent, her patience and good temper had thinned.

Wilson glanced over at the monitor, noting that the baby's heartbeat was still steady. He looked down at Emily and smiled; she was dozing between contractions, getting what rest she could. There were already a few flowers in the room, gifts from his staff and hers, along with several cards.

He yawned.

An unexpected tap on the door roused him, and Wilson looked over at the tiny, wire-reinforced glass window to see House peering in. Startled, Wilson gently let go of Emily's hand and made his way to the door, opening it only a tiny bit. "House, what are you doing here? It's two in the morning!"

"How is she?" he muttered quietly. Wilson glanced back at Emily and sighed.

"Right on track, everything's going the way it should, if a little slowly."

"Has she announced that you're never getting any more sex yet? That's one of the classic milestones you know."

"Not yet, although I expect it's coming soon. What's in your pocket?" Wilson demanded suspiciously. House tried to look affronted, but Wilson rolled his eyes and held out his hand.

House put the little Gravedigger into it reluctantly. "I was just bringing it to her, to help her through her time of need."

"You were just stealing it from her office and you wanted to be sure she wasn't going to get up and hunt you down like the light-fingered bastard you ARE," Wilson growled back.

House sighed. "That too—although I'm surprised you're here at all."

Wilson shot him a grim look. "It's my baby, of course I'm going to be here."

"Whatever happened to the good old days when people expected fathers to pace outside in the waiting room, getting drunk and passing out cigars? Or just passing out, as the case may be."

"Well over the years a phenomenon called emotional responsibility came to the forefront for most committed parents—I know it's an alien concept to you House, this whole accountability thing, but you might consider trying it once in a while."

"Gah. Knowing Cuddy I'll be handcuffed to her bedrail when the time comes."

A low groan interrupted their conversation; guiltily Wilson glanced over at Emily, who was gripping her sheet with clenched fists. He turned back to House, glaring at him.

"It won't be the first time you've been cuffed to a hospital bed."

House smirked unrepentantly. "True, although she'll be the one cursing and groaning next year."

"—Next year?" Wilson shot House a keen glance, and his astonishment widened his grin when House said nothing. "Oh my God, is that a blizzard I hear approaching Hades?"

"No, it's your girlfriend over there, grunting out your illegitimate Hebraic heir," House snapped, caught between embarrassment and reluctant pride. Wilson kept grinning, even as he moved to rejoin Emily at her bedside. He called over his shoulder.

"Mazel tov—I think."

Emily groaned and glared over at House. "James, if I die—take my Grave Digger and burn it, would you?"

House glared back, spun and stalked off as the sound of Emily's weak chuckles faded into a low, pain-filled moan.

00oo00oo00

By six AM, things had begun to happen much more rapidly, and Emily was gripping the rails of the bed instead of Wilson's fingers. She bore down hard, and from somewhere between her knees, both Wilson and Yang were making soft sounds of encouragement, praising her. The early light of dawn was lightening the curtains, and aside from the monitors and the soft sound of the rails creaking, the loudest noise was Emily's groans.

"No . . . More . . . Sex!" she chuffed, her voice breaking slightly. "I . . . MEAN that!"

"That's a good sign," Yang commented gently, "Nearly there. I see the crown breeching . . . "

"Push, Em, we can see the head—" Wilson ordered, his voice breaking slightly. Emily redoubled her efforts, curling forward, her hair lank and damp around her face as her nostrils flared and her fingers gripped the rails. With one last supreme effort, she grunted, looking down in time to see Wilson's hands catch and hold the slippery, white-coated little form as it passed out of her. Yang looked up and managed a brief smile before pressing hard on her abdomen.

"Nice job. I'll just let Doctor Wilson cut the cord here and go clean up your daughter there while I ask you to push again, Em. Gotta get that placenta moved out too—push please---"

"Dau-daughter? We have a daughter?" Emily chuffed, for the moment ignoring Doctor Yang as she watched Wilson carefully set the baby down under the heat lamp of the glass bassinet. He lightly rubbed the baby with a warm wet cloth as the nurse helped him.

"It's a girl, Em—seven pounds, two ounces," Wilson called to her, his voice husky.

"Mazel tov. Emily, please, I know you're glad it's over, but just one more expelling push, please—" Doctor Yang pleaded with good-humor. She reluctantly turned her attention back to him and gave another hard squeeze, feeling the slow slide of weight move through her. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Wilson and the nurse record the Apgar and suction mucus from the baby's nose.

"Looking very good—all intact, " Doctor Yang murmured. "So how long is baby girl?"

"Nearly fifteen inches, and SO beautiful," Wilson murmured. "Oh Em, you did a perfect job. She's gorgeous!"

"Show me—" came her plea. Carefully Wilson picked up the baby, now wrapped in a fuzzy little blanket and carried her over. Emily eagerly reached for her daughter and looked down at the solemn little face staring up at her.

"Hey . . . " Emily whispered, her voice choked. Wilson looked down, grinning himself, the joy of the moment lifting away all fatigue.

"We got our Hannah," he murmured. At the sound of her name the baby stirred slightly, her squashed features wrinkling a bit more. Emily stroked her cheek and the baby made a little cooing sound, a tiny flute-like note that made her parents both laugh.

"Hannah Rachel Mansfield-Wilson," Emily mused with satisfaction. "A good name for a good little girl."

"Yes. And in a little bit, I'll go tell all the important people about her. Hell, I'll tell all the unimportant and uninterested ones too!" Wilson announced, laughing softly. "My GOD, Em, we did it. We're . . . parents."

Doctor Yang chuckled, and gestured with his head to the glass window on the delivery room door, crowded with faces. "I think a few people already know."

00oo00oo00

Cuddy was in the nursery that morning before she even stepped into her office, admiring the baby, who was sleeping soundly, little head nearly lost in her stocking cap. "Jimmy, she's a doll."

"She's . . . . My God, I still can't quite get used to the idea she's here!" Wilson admitted tiredly. He sat sprawled out in one of the padded rockers, still in his gown, grinning. Cuddy laughed.

"You know House is going to tell you she looks like a shaved pug," Cuddy sighed, her sweet look at the baby taking the sting out of the remark.

Wilson chuckled again, and rubbed his face, the hint of stubble coming through. "House isn't getting anywhere near my kid—not until she's old enough to handle a weapon."

"Amen," came the absent reply. Cuddy gave a happy sigh and asked, "How's Emily?"

"Good. Sleeping, which I approve of, and doing really good. Her mother's here, along with my folks, so we've got enough sitters and grandmas and diaper changers around for a while. Speaking of diaper changers . . ."

Cuddy shifted her gaze to look at him, and blushed. "Oh God. He told you."

"He told me. At two in the morning no less. Congratulations—how far along are you?" Wilson asked, trying not to look at her tummy. Cuddy drew in a troubled breath.

"Not long enough for him to be sharing the news. About ten weeks."

"Started your pre-natals? Sleeping okay?" Wilson continued gently, making Cuddy's blush deepen a bit. She flashed a shy smile at him.

"Doctors! Yes, doing all the right things so far. I've got an appointment upstairs for this afternoon in fact." She paused and added, "House was here at two in the morning?"

"Yep. Insomnia I suppose, along with kleptomania," Wilson sighed. "How's he taking impending fatherhood?"

Cuddy sighed herself and reached down to lightly stroke Hannah's soft cheek. "I have no idea."

"Really?" Wilson asked, interested now. "No protests or outbursts or whining?" seeing Cuddy's annoyed expression, Wilson faltered, "Well come on—this is Greg we're talking about."

"True. I think—and don't quote me on this—but I think . . . he might make an effort," Cuddy admitted with a small, tender smile.

00oo00oo00

House idly noted the flower delivery man passing by the glass walls of his office, pausing in his recital of symptoms to track the bouquet as it was carried along the hallway. Cameron noted his interest and smiled gently.

"Wilson's daughter seems to be getting a lot of good wishes."

"Yeah, yeah, I've already seen the little Norfin troll—I'm just curious why that bouquet is headed the wrong way—" he griped, reaching for his cane. House tossed the whiteboard pen to Foreman, who caught it in surprise as House passed him towards the door. "Keep writing—neatness and spelling count. I'll be right back---"

He lumbered out, watching the delivery man walk into Cuddy's office carrying the arrangement of peach roses in, and reached the door in time to have the other man already leaving, passing by and out again. House took a breath and pushed his way in.

"You're not allowed to get flowers at work," he protested, shooting Cuddy a mulish glare. She looked up from the little card and glared back.

"And you're not allowed to shoot off your big mouth about certain situations without discussing it with me first," she snapped back, fingering one of the luscious peach blooms.

"I didn't. Wilson jumped to his own conclusion without my confirming or denying it. I'm not responsible for his assumptions!" House rumbled, coming closer, his exasperation evident.

Cuddy tilted her chin down and eyed him just under her elegant eyebrows. "Right."

"And in any case, roses are just a little too personal, especially for the workplace. I'm sure they're a mistake."

"A big one," Cuddy agreed, fingering the note. She pulled one bud out and gently broke the stem, working it into the buttonhole on House's jacket lapel with gentle fingers. He scowled down at it, his expression unrelenting.

"We're not going to the Prom."

"I have a better suggestion—go to clinic and do your job. I'll make sure the roses are appreciated."

"There's always the cemetery on the way home—" he pointed out. Cuddy tipped her face up and looked at him, her eyes locked with his.

"Thank you. And don't ever do it again."

He grinned; a quick flash of mischievousness across his lean face. "They told me the card wouldn't say anything."

"The card didn't have to, Greg. Now get back to work while I start thinking about how the hell I'm going to beat Joe Burton in the five K next week against St. Sebastian."

House blinked. "The hospital fundraiser? You're still planning to run in that?"

Cuddy nodded. "Foreman, Chase, Cameron, Turwitz, Wilson and I are all signed up, remember?"

House's scowl deepened.


	7. Chapter 7

Mrs. Farber looked down at the ticket and back up at House. He kept his expression neutral, but there was a hint of pleading in his eyes. Microscopic, but she'd had years of practice in spotting the stress along the corners of his mouth, and through the grip of his fingers on his cane.

"Hasi, you're serious?"

"For once in my long, miserable life, yes. I know you made plans, and I know you should probably go and follow through on them. You don't owe me or anybody a thing, Marlena, but if you're serious about wanting to feel useful, now's the time."

"I'm too olt," came her first protest, but House rolled his eyes at her.

"Nice try, but you've got some of the hardiest genes in the pool. The odds are good that you'll outlive me easily."

That made her smile, sadly. She tried another tack. "Vat does Lisa tink of zis idea?"

"She's for it." This wasn't precisely a lie, but House was sure Cuddy would be on his side for this situation once she was told of it.

He shifted and looked off to the left, sighing. "She's already talked about expanding the place, and there's more than enough room for the three of us at the moment. I'm . . " he hesitated. "I have no clue how this goes, Marlena. Medically, intellectually, sexually, I'm light-years ahead of the pack, sure, but this . . . fatherhood thing is out of my league. I can bluff only so far, you know."

Mrs. Farber said nothing. The fact that she and Cuddy had already had nearly the same conversation a day earlier was sweetly ironic in a way, and she wondered again how two brilliant people could be so insecure at times. Or maybe not insecure, she mentally amended, more like . . . worried.

"Ja, I suppose I coult change mein plans," she grudgingly admitted. The low, deep sigh of relief from House amused her, and she looked over the top of her glasses at him. "But I haf . . . terms."

Immediately the slightly panicked look was back--only for an instant--then House reverted to his standard exasperated sneer. "Terms went out with the treaty of Versailles."

"Dat vas for ze Germans, not ze Austrians. Oont my terms are rrreasonable," she informed him. House snorted.

"You don't get to rebuilt your armaments OR occupy the Rhine. And no demanding Lebensraum either, although I think both Cuddy and I would be willing to let you occupy the kitchen."

"I vant to visit San Polis first, oont ven I com back, I vant a say in ze remodlink, ja?"

House cocked an ear at her in exaggeration, "What? You say you're an interior decorator slash architect now? I must have missed you getting your degree from This Old House Academy."

"Ze only olt House is YOU, Hasi-Greggie."

"Oh ha, ha, ha—like I've never heard THAT one before," he snarled mildly. Mrs. Farber pocketed her plane ticket and folded her arms, looking at him until he gave a reluctant nod. "Okay, fine—although you'll have to get around the She-Beast on the remodeling issue."

"Nursery," Mrs. Farber murmured. "Oont a schtudy for you, zince you von't vant to be deschturbed at times."

For a second, House looked vaguely amused at this; he cocked his head again. "Heh. I HAVE a 'schtudy' just down the road. Works just fine."

"Ja, zat trailer mit ze met labs oont drug dealers for neighbors—goot vork environment."

"Riff raff over rug rats anytime," House replied firmly. Mrs. Farber shrugged.

"Joost my point. Anyvay, I tink you need mein imput for more zan help mit ze pollyvog."

House shot her a disbelieving glance, one laced with scorn and a hint of surprise. "The pollywog?"

Mrs. Farber nodded. "It's as goot a name as any. Bezides, you'll come oop viss your own evil label anyvay, nicht wahr?"

"The pollywog?" House repeated, shaking his head gently. "Comparing my heir to a larval amphibian?"

She put her hands on her hips and stared up at him challengingly. "And vat vould YOU call ze baby at ziss point?"

"It's clearly a hut."

"A hut?" Mrs. Farber tried to look stern, but it was difficult when House's expression held a hint of mischievous glee. He nodded confidently.

"Or a yurt, maybe, or penty, given what Cuddy's shape is going to morph into eventually. I like that—penty, jutting out over her swollen, tired feet—the imagery's nearly perfect."

"Greg, vot is a penty?" Mrs. Farber asked patiently. He rolled his eyes at her ignorance and brushed past her towards the kitchen; a man in search of coffee.

"It's a little house, duh—" he threw over his shoulder. Mrs. Farber watched his retreating back and bit her lips to keep from laughing; clearly Greg was going to take all the credit in every way he could, and for the moment, she couldn't chide him. She followed after him, turning her thoughts to the logistics of changing her travel plans, feeling a warmth deep inside.

It was good to be needed.

00oo00oo00

Cuddy blinked, trying to focus on the academic reports that sat in neat stacks on her desk. She'd industriously plowed through nearly half of them, making the appropriate notations where needed and wishing the hospital had already switched to digital versions of all this paper. It was difficult to concentrate—the material was boring, and she was tired.

Still, the little secret delight made her smile, and she occasionally stopped what she was doing and rubbed her stomach gently. The blood draw of a few days ago had confirmed it, and in ten minutes she was going to her first appointment upstairs with Doctor Cecily Howard.

Choosing a doctor had been an interesting discussion with House, who seemed to know far too much about the various personal lives of the entire OBGYN department. Cuddy had been appalled, amused and annoyed at his rapid dismissal of her first two choices, and she remembered the conversation from that morning quite clearly.

They'd been driving in together; something they rarely did, but it was a good morning for it, and the drive-through at Starbucks was a bonus. House had shot down her first suggestion before his first swallow of coffee.

"_Yang's a closet cross-dresser and overextends himself on caseloads. You know as well as I do that he'd be too intimidated not to take you, and by doing that he'd skimp on his other cases," House pointed out. "Not Yang."_

"_House, how the hell do you know he's a transvestite?" Cuddy demanded as they sat in the car, waiting for the light to change. House rolled his eyes._

"_Because he gets catalogs from Leslie Shoe company. And your second choice—Dachmann? No. I wouldn't trust him to deliver a verbal message, let alone a baby. He's barely keeping full hours now that he's discovered the joys of online gambling."_

_Cuddy tightened her grip on the wheel, scowling at the intersection. "So are you expecting me to just go squat in the back field behind the hospital to drop our love nugget?"_

_Unexpectedly House grinned at that, his sidelong glance tinted with admiration. "Now you're getting all sentimental . . . no, if you HAVE to have it here at PPTH, then go with Howard. She's reliable, she's kept up with all the latest info and she's—"_

"—_A woman," Cuddy broke in, a realization dawning on her._

"_--That too."_

"_Do you have a problem with me seeing a male doctor?" She asked suddenly. The light had changed and Cuddy pressed the accelerator, moving through the intersection smoothly. House paused only a second, but it was a damning one and she knew it._

"_No."_

"_House—"_

"_I'm not sexist. I've given you perfectly valid reasons why Yang and Dachmann aren't in our best interest," he pointed out._

"_In theory yes. But they're also the opposite sex."_

"_Yang only counts for half," House argued, but weakly. Cuddy snorted. _

"_I repeat, do you have a problem with me seeing a male doctor?"_

"_No."_

_The pause that followed grew thicker, and tenser. Cuddy held her tongue, waiting to see if the man beside her would eventually break it. They drove on, not speaking for nearly ten minutes in silence._

_It was only with the hospital was in sight that House finally muttered, low and nearly inaudibly. "No, I don't have a problem with you seeing a male doctor. I may have a bit of a problem with having a male doctor seeing you, however. Not because your delectable bits aren't worthy of attention, but because they are, and I'm not quite ready to have word of said bits shared around."_

_Cuddy shot a sharp look at him. "House, you complete hypocrite! You've made remarks about my chest and ass on a weekly basis for years, and now you're telling me you don't want me attended by a man because you think they'd gossip about me?"_

"_Exactly."_

"_Emily went with Yang!"_

"_Mansfield isn't the Dean of Medicine," House replied testily. "And her partypants aren't in question here."_

"_Just mine."_

"_Precisely. Your reputation's suffered enough just by being married to me—why make it worse?" House cheekily pointed out, passing her coffee to her before climbing out of the car. She glared at him over the top, slamming her door hard._

"_You're jealous!"_

"_I'm thinking ahead. No matter how much you want to credit your doctors with professionalism and ethics, you know as well as I do that there will always be an unsavory element of petty politics and personal intrigue. I'm just trying to keep you off the Internet."_

"_What makes you think Howard won't post shots of me?"_

_House scoffed, his dimples deepening, "She's one year from retirement, She-Beast, and not about to blow it. Go with Howard."_

And damn him, he'd been right, Cuddy noted. Politics aside, Cecily Howard had the smaller caseload and Board certification; she'd been delighted to make the appointment.

Cuddy rose up and stretched; as she did so she noted her computer screen had the monthly calendar up, and Saturday was highlighted in red. The Family Health FunRun was the major part of the Health Fair Open House, and as such she'd competed in it for the last five years. For three of those she'd outrun the old director of St. Sebastian's handily, but the new one, Joe Burton, wasn't a man to take past defeats easily, and the challenge had become a little more personal.

Personal enough that there was a fair betting pool going, Cuddy knew. Not officially, but she'd heard here and there that quite a number of Princeton Plainsboro folks were willing to lay money down on her winning again.

Until today, she'd have been proud to have that sort of backing behind her; the hot little streak of natural competitiveness deep within her soul mingled with the quiet pleasure of living up to the faith of her staff. But now—now pregnancy was a wild card she hadn't counted on. Maybe Howard would have some advice. Cuddy walked out of her office, aware of the momentous feel of the moment.

She rode up in the elevator, humming to herself until a few people got in on the second floor, then stepped out herself on the third floor, heading for the OBGYN wing. The reception nurse looked up at her, smiling in a preoccupied way. "Doctor Cuddy?"

"Good afternoon. I have an appointment with Doctor Howard," Cuddy began quietly. "Intake?"

The nurse blinked a little, but recovered quickly and nodded, scanning the monitor in front of her. "Yes, I see it. Have a seat and we'll call you . . . in the meantime—" Almost apologetically, the nurse handed Cuddy a clipboard with several pages on it, and a pen. Cuddy scooped them up and looked around the waiting room lobby at the various women sitting there in differing stages of gestation. She found a little corner area with a coffee table and sofa, moving to sit and fill in the paperwork.

She'd reached the third page when a movement made her look up; House stood there, staring down at the blanks left on the page.

"What are you doing here?"

"You're going to need my Social Security number," he told her. "Along with my blood type and general history."

"I already KNOW your medical history, House," Cuddy pointed out wearily. "Along with your allergies, hospitalizations and family genetic history."

"Even the androgenetic alopecia?" he muttered, his expression slightly stern. Cuddy locked gazes back at him, forcing her mouth to stay straight.

"Oh my God. Why didn't you tell me? This changes everything, House—"

He fought his own expression and picked up the clipboard, rapidly filling in blanks as he spoke. "I figured you'd never find out—being taller than you, and on top most of the time . . . speaking of which, what position did we actually conceive the Evil Spawn in anyway? According to certain ancient cultures, that influences the kid, you know."

Cuddy closed her eyes for a moment, trying to think. "Not sure—if it was nearly two months ago, then it might have been after Valentines, when we . . . " she trailed off, feeling the heat rise to her face as a single vivid memory rose in her mind, sharp and clear. House grinned down at the clipboard, and Cuddy knew he was thinking of the exact same encounter.

Chocolate Mousse and yodeling included.

"Ohhh yes, I remember it well. I suppose this means our child will forever be tainted by the power of the Viennese Oyster, eh?" House muttered happily. Cuddy blinked, but before she could deny or agree, the nurse from the reception area paged her and she stood up.

House shifted; Cuddy shot him a look and he gave an elaborate shrug and spoke loudly, "Sorry, no matter HOW much you beg I'm not going in with you. I've already seen it all, and with much better lighting."

He might have gotten away with it, too, if Cuddy hadn't stepped on his foot as she passed by him to follow the nurse, snatching the clipboard when he bent forward in pain. House glared at her until she turned the corner of the hall, then straightened up and smiled gently.

With a shake of his head, he lumbered out of the OBGYN, fishing in his pocket for his Gameboy.


	8. Chapter 8

Naturally, the news of the Dean of Medicine's condition made the rounds in less than an hour. House was amused at how many whispered conversations stopped when he passed by; how there were more stares directed his way, most of them stunned, a few of disbelief. He held his head high and did his best to keep his expression neutral as he prowled the halls of the hospital, listening and watching from floor to floor.

"The general consensus is that either Cuddy signed a pact with a fertility demon, or that the sheer acidity of my semen dissolved the condom," House reported with dark glee to Wilson, who was tiredly rubbing his eyes.

"I think the latter is most likely."

"Nope—gloveless love is the way to go—or come, as the case may be," House mused thoughtfully, leaning against the far wall of Wilson's office. "What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were on that oh-so-vaunted family leave."

Wilson sighed, flipping through another chart. "I am, but there were a few last minute details I needed to attend to. Emily insisted."

"Ah. Used a crowbar to get you momentarily unbonded from your little drool monkey?"

The stapler flew, smacking him in the stomach; House snapped forward with an 'oof!' sound as it clattered to the carpet. Wilson looked over at him grimly.

"My daughter HAS a name," Wilson uttered grimly. "Use it."

"Or else?" House groused, but weakly. He scooped up the stapler and hefted it as he rubbed his stomach. "That was a wussy throw by the way."

"I was aiming for your nuts. Lucky for you my strike zone's on the high side," Wilson replied, his focus back on the paperwork. House winced a little and set the stapler down.

"Oh yeah, paternity is doing wonders for you, Jimmy-boy."

Wilson looked up under shaggy brows and smiled briefly. "Wait untilyour turn, House. Just wait."

House cocked his head. "I've got time, and who says I'm going to even be a PART of anything?"

Wilson looked genuinely startled. "You're kidding, right?"

"Absenteeism fatherhood—all the cool guys are doing it—just look at Eddie Murphy," House replied insouciantly, then gave a shrug. Wilson dropped his face down and rubbed his forehead tiredly.

"House . . . I don't know why I expected anything more—it's your life, your family, so . . . ."

"The secret to doing a better job than your parents is to not be your parents," House replied distantly. He shot a glance at Wilson, adding, "at least according to your girlfriend. Personally, I think that's a little oversimplified, since there are a few factors I actually liked about my childhood. I bet you've got a boatload you liked about yours."

"It wasn't a bad time in my life," Wilson acknowledged softly, nodding. "Regular meals and baths, the occasional outstanding birthday, summers off—"

"—Libraries, sports, field trips, the first microscope, travel . . . lots of travel," House continued, his gaze suddenly fixed on one of the movie posters behind the desk. " . . . new schools, new addresses, same old routines. First day of school, find the bully and study his moves. Decide if you're going to spend the rest of the year avoiding him, or take him on in the first three days and get your pecking order established. Get the lecture from mom and the strapping from dad, go to sleep, secure in knowing your place in the world as defined by that base, that school, that day. Do it over every two or three years, but not just at school, but also for every team you join, every class you take. Win some, lose a lot more . . . yeah, good times."

Wilson held his breath, not willing to interrupt the monolog, but House shook himself out of his reverie and thumped his cane down, shifting his gaze back to Wilson.

"You do realize that by having a girl, you're now stuck knowing that no matter what you do, she's going to fall in love with some idiot completely unworthy of her."

Wilson's face fell. "I've got a few years to devise a specific dating policy."

House chuckled. "That's what they all think."

"Yeah, well you could end up with a daughter yourself you know," came Wilson's retort, "although given her parentage I'm pretty sure she'd be able to take care of herself."

"Good one—ambiguous enough to be complimentary or insulting," House murmured, shifting to rise from his position against the wall. "Doesn't matter though. Karmic justice is bound to insure I'll end up with a son."

"In a few weeks you can check for certain," Wilson replied, watching him curiously. House's gaze narrowed.

"What, and resign myself that early in the game? Cuddy will get the test, but Howard can keep the results to herself as far as I'm concerned."

"I thought you didn't like surprises."

"I don't," he replied, pushing off and heading out the door. "That's why I'm avoiding this one for nine months."

00oo00oo00

Cuddy looked over at Cecily Howard and nodded. She had the list of safe medications in hand, along with the test results and suggested readings. Doctor Howard looked amused and gave a shrug. "I know you're as up on all this as the rest of us, Lisa, but I'm giving it to you anyway so I can keep track. I'm definitely pushing the prenatals with extra folic acid, and I'm glad you agree that the amniocentesis is a good idea, given your age."

Cuddy nodded, looking down at the chart and smiling a little. "What about the Fun Run on Saturday?"

Doctor Howard smiled. "I've got a twenty down on you to beat Joe Burton by seven minutes."

"So you think I should still run?" Cuddy asked, feeling relieved.

The obstetrician nodded. "Certainly. You're in terrific shape and it won't do you or the baby any harm at all—I wish more expectant mothers would keep up with their exercise early on, frankly; it helps in so many ways. It's up to you, of course, but there isn't a single reason pregnancy-wise why you shouldn't."

"Good," Cuddy sighed happily. She slid off the exam table, making the paper crinkle a bit, and Doctor Howard took the chart from her.

"We're counting on you to beat him, and keep the winning record for Princeton-Plainsboro you know."

Cuddy leaned in and looked at the older woman, grinning a bit as she did so. "Just between you and me—how much money is going around on this?"

Doctor Howard thought hard for a moment. "Well, Khan and Henderson, all the nurses in Radiology and Oncology, and those nice busboys in the cafeteria were all in the betting pool when I signed up last week. Most of us were putting in at least twenty, so I'd say there's at least a thousand floating around minimum."

"And word of my condition . . . ?"

" . . . Probably won't change things. We know you're in shape," Howard pointed out. "Of course, if the people at St. Sebastian find out—I have no idea if that might tip the scale."

Cuddy sighed. "Of course, if I lose, everyone will think it's because of the baby—"

"Not necessarily," Howard shook her head, her white curls bouncing. "And you can always choose not to run too—it's up to you."

Considering this thought, Cuddy left the OBGYN and headed down the stairs in an effort for privacy. Pausing on one of the landings, she looked at the prescription for the bottle of pre-natal vitamins and grinned widely.

"Just this once, juuuust between you and me---Yeaaaah!" she crowed, patting her still flat stomach and laughing. The echo of her mirth rose up, and feeling wary, Cuddy cleared her throat and moved back to the stairs, regaining her decorum as quickly as she'd dropped it.

By the time she'd reached her office, there were six messages on her desk. Cuddy sorted them neatly and was in the middle of returning a phone call when House thumped in, making it a point not to meet her eyes. She turned her profile to him in a vain attempt to keep her conversation private.

"Three bouncy castles are still better than none. We can set them up on the grassy area in front of the secondary parking lot. Nooo, we can't have them on the other side because that's the main ambulance bay, and the last thing I want is to have kids watching the arrivals, Mina. Good. Yes. Yes, I think an extra three cases of bottled water are a good idea. Get your staff to store them in the cafeteria and then we can restock them as needed . . . really? That much? Then I guess I'd better win then, huh? Good—talk to you later, yes. Bye."

She hung up and looked over at House. He was sprawled on her sofa, resting his chin on the handle of his cane. "You're running," he commented.

Cuddy nodded. "I've been given the green light."

"Good."

"You're not . . . concerned, are you?" Cuddy couldn't help asking, since his tone was slightly preoccupied. House rolled his gaze towards her, taking a moment to look her over.

"Only about losing a small fortune if you twist an ankle, you mean, right?"

She glared, slightly hurt that he could duck behind a callous comment without hesitating, but House spoke up again, his voice slow and quiet. "Come on, She-Beast—you're a regular valkyrie in Nikes. You I have no worries about. On the other hand, Joe Burton is looking to make a name for himself, especially in front of his new staff, and one of the quickest ways to do that, if you'll pardon the pun, is to beat you."

"I can outrun him—it's only five kilometers through the park and back," Cuddy pointed out confidently. House nodded absently.

"Note that I didn't say he'd outrace you, or win. I said his goal was to beat you."

Cuddy narrowed her gaze at House, concentrating hard for a moment. "You think he's going to cheat?"

"I know he is. I'm just trying to figure out how."

"House—" came her exasperated sigh, "You're making assumptions here, and pretty far-fetched ones at that. Where's your proof?"

"I have none, just a few concrete suspicions at this point," he admitted softly, then added, "You know Farber's on the fence about you participating in this."

"Really?"

"Really. It's not the running that bugs her, it's the little tiny shorts. She thinks you show too much skin," he remarked with a leer.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "And that's her only concern?"

"That and you getting enough water. She's delaying her flight just to be here at the Health Faire. I might be able to talk her into getting her blood pressure checked along with her corneas," he groused gently.

Cuddy laughed. "If she does it, it will be because it was her idea and not yours, Greg. She doesn't give into your bullying."

"I'm wearing her down—another forty plus years might do it," House heaved himself up from the sofa, leaning heavily on his cane. Cuddy watched him, feeling a sudden pang at his stiffness; his instability. She rose up from behind her desk and came over to him, looking up in his face.

"I wish—" she began, and stopped, seeing his flinty expression.

"—I wish it too, every damned day of my life. Wishing is crap, and a bad habit to boot," House growled. "It's as bad as this thing," he held up the cane briefly, then stamped it down on the carpet again, "--And for exactly the same reason—it's a false support. Just run your fucking legs off, Lisa, and get everyone's bet covered, okay?"

She flushed, and nodded. He hadn't raised his voice, but the effect of his words was like a quick slap, and Cuddy blinked, refusing to show the pain. House pressed his lips together for a moment, then looked away, his voice so low she almost didn't hear it.

"You didn't mean it, and I didn't either. Sometimes . . . " he struggled a little to get the words out. " . . . it's just that once in a while it's . . . hard . . . to see you do something I can't. Something I used to be able to do."

"I get it," Cuddy murmured back. He reached out and cupped the back of her head, turning her face up to look into her eyes and for a moment his gaze was fierce. Then he laughed, without bitterness, without humor.

"On the other hand, I can't figure out how you manage to hook your bras up behind your back. It's like some sort of sensual contortion, and putting the thing on is pretty pointless anyway, since I prefer the natural look on you—"

"Ah, no. Especially in pregnancy."

"Keeping the girls in the swing set. Fine—maybe I'll just take the winnings from the race and see if Jezebel's does something in a nice lace and cable number."

"Reinforced steel underwire, with cut out peekaboo panels," Cuddy murmured, amused at how his pupils darkened.

House pulled her closer, his lips twisting gently into a reluctant smirk. "A Frankenbra for Doctor Babystein—I like it."

"I bet you do—" Cuddy replied. House's cell phone rang and he glanced at the number for a moment in irritation. He headed for the door of her office and glanced over his shoulder.

"Gotta go, life and death crap here."

"Hospital. We get a lot of that," Cuddy agreed gently. "I love you, Greg."

He looked startled, and gave her one sharp nod, then squared his shoulders and lurched out while she watched him go and smiled gently.


	9. Chapter 9

_(Author's note: This chapter contains language and prejudiced viewpoints that I do NOT endorse or support in any way. )_

The Saturday of the Health Faire was cool and slightly overcast; the weatherman kept promising the skies would clear, but it hadn't even as the booths and attractions were being set up. Some of the sidewalks around PPTH were still damp, but that didn't stop the well-oiled machinery of the Health Faire in the least.

Amid the crowds, Lisa Cuddy was in her element, efficiently tamping out minor crises and directing traffic. She was in a green floral dress with a short red jacket, decked with several bangles on each wrist and sporting a lovely enamel pin of the Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital logo over her left breast.

"Nutrition booth should be right next to the pediatric eye check," she pointed patiently. "That way families can be munching on sliced apples and orange sections while they're waiting, Carl."

The man nodded, moving to do her bidding. Cuddy turned as a red-faced woman came up to her with a clipboard. "Doctor Cuddy, we've got a problem with the extension cables? None of them will reach the Cholesterol check booth."

"Move one of the portable generators from the auxiliary supplies in Urgent Care," came the calm reply. "Make sure you replace it once the Faire closes at five," Cuddy scribbled her authorization on the clipboard and turned to the next person approaching her. House took a moment to peek down her cleavage before speaking.

"Dear God you really are in your element, aren't you? Bossing people, throwing a major event--what a power rush."

"It soothes the Boudica in me—was there something you needed?" Cuddy murmured. House snorted.

"Just wondering if Burton's come over and introduced himself yet."

"Not yet—from what I hear he's waiting for the media to show up first," Cuddy replied, falling into stride with House as they headed towards a bank of treadmills lined up at the Cardiology booth.

"Ah," House murmured, as if this were no surprise to him. Cuddy gave a little nod and they walked on for a few steps without saying anything. Finally she spoke, under her breath.

"If what you told me is true . . . "

"It is—my intel's good on this one," House replied confidently. "Tito Rovamir might not be able to put his pants on front to back, but he worked under Burton for three years at Trenton General and one year over at St. Sebastian's before coming to us."

"You're trusting the word of a man who considers Smarties a food group?" Cuddy asked, but her tone was gentle. House nodded without looking at her.

"He's got no reason to lie—I don't think he's got the mental capacity to lie, come to think of it—and besides, he's got two bucks on you winning anyway."

Cuddy looked dubious, but nodded anyway. "All right, I'll take your word for it, and his. So—strategy?"

House handed over something; Cuddy looked at the tiny pink foam tubes in her palm skeptically. "This is your strategy?"

"You're feisty, and I've known you to get off-track when you're riled, She-Beast. I suggest you pop those in just prior to the starting gun and run your edible little ass off," he told her, his mock-cheerfulness a frightening thing to see. Cuddy arched an eyebrow at him, but he nodded impatiently. "As the logo goes—just do it."

Sighing, Cuddy pocketed the ear plugs

Joseph Burton was a tall handsome man with sandy blonde hair, gray eyes, and the easy grace of Old Money. He wore a blazer and slacks, and was followed around by a suited young secretary who had her steno pad out at all times. When Burton strode up to Cuddy and took her two hands in his own, smiling, Cuddy felt blinded by the gleam of his white teeth.

"So you're the little fireball of energy running Princeton-Plainsboro these days . . . quite a change from the previous administration, isn't it?"

"Yes," Cuddy replied politely, not bothering to point out she'd been in charge of the hospital for years now. Around them a few photographers were taking pictures, and Joe Burton kept a hold of her hands, beaming away.

"Yes indeed. Still, that's what I hear about you—pretty assertive," Burton murmured in an undertone. Cuddy turned up the wattage on her smile and didn't look at him. Before he let go of her hands he gave them a quick, almost painful squeeze, and Cuddy refused to respond

On the sidelines, House watched with grim amusement. Next to him, Mrs. Farber sniffed haughtily. "He's a bat von."

"Really?" House asked quietly, amused at her perception.

Mrs. Farber nodded. "I don't like his big vhite teeth. He's not smiling wis zem, he's . . . baring zem."

"Predators often do," House replied softly. "But I've got faith in Doctor Cuddystein's ability to handle herself. Let's find a good spot for the race."

They walked along the asphalt path together, towards House's favorite picnic table. Mrs. Farber settled in on the bench while House propped himself against the edge of the table and set his cane on the surface behind him. There were a quite a few other people milling around, setting up the finish line and roping off areas near it. House checked his watch.

After twenty minutes, two familiar figures rolled up, pushing a state of the art stroller. House winced as Wilson and Emily approached. Wilson was dressed in sweats and a McGill tee-shirt, his Fun Run number already pinned on the back. Mrs. Farber was already leaning over the stroller cooing, while Emily lifted baby Hannah out.

"You're actually bringing her to mingle with the common folk?" House sniped mildly. "Will I be required to submit to a background check?"

"Shut up, Hasi—ooooh she's be-YOO ti-full, Emalee—" Mrs. Farber crooned, taking the baby from Emma with practiced hands. Hanna was sound asleep and unaware of the loving scrutiny; Emma grinned.

"Thanks. We couldn't miss the chance to watch Dad run for the glory of PPTH you know."

"More like jog and bitch about it," House grumbled, looking at Hannah abstractedly. "The real money's on MY baby."

"So I hear," Wilson muttered, "Thanks for the note of confidence in my abilities."

"Just don't get in Cuddy's way, that's all I ask," House replied. "You don't look like you're getting any sleep."

Emily held out her hand; Wilson dug in his pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill, laying it ceremoniously into her hand while Mrs. Farber smirked, the baby on her shoulder.

House scowled. "A bet?"

"You'd make a negative comment about fatherhood within the first three minutes. I had you pegged for at least five, given all the other distractions here at the fair," Wilson griped.

"I should get half of that—" House commented to Emily, who shook her head.

"Fat chance. I need the supplemental income for nefarious purposes."

"Me too—" House whined, not paying attention as Mrs. Farber shifted Hannah into his arms. "And my purposes are nefariouser than yours."

"Nefariouser isn't even a word, House," Emily told him sweetly. "Smile—this one's for the album." She whipped out her camera phone and snapped a picture as House's eyes widened and he clutched the bundle in the fuzzy duckie blanket to his shoulder.

"Oh crap—" He growled while Wilson chuckled and Mrs. Farber cackled. "You set me up, all three of you—"

"It really is sweet, this revenge thing," Wilson murmured to Mrs. Farber. "I need to do this more often with him."

"Ja, like after-glow but viss out ze sex," she agreed cheekily.

Before Wilson could do much more than cringe at that image, Hannah began snuffling against House's shoulder; he stroked one hand along her rounded back through the blanket and glared at Emily ferociously. "Another picture, and that camera's becoming a sigmoidoscope, Mansfield—"

"Okay, Uncle Grouch, okay—" She chortled, reluctantly closing it and tucking it back in the diaper bag. "It's served its purpose anyway."

Chase, Cameron and Foreman were approaching; hastily House shoved the baby back to her father, who took her with an amused smirk. "Don't worry, your reputation is still safe---for the moment."

House glared at him darkly. "You and yours I'll deal with shortly; don't think this little incident will be forgotten. No, I need to confer with my minions there to make sure that nobody gets too close to Burton and Cuddy."

"Why not?" Wilson asked, but the three Fellows had already gotten close enough to wave. Cameron wore a green tank top with the Princeton Plainsboro logo on it, and bright pink cotton shorts; Foreman looked sleekly muscled in a plain grey tee-shirt and blue nylon shorts, and Chase looked as if he were out of a middle school gym class with baggy black shorts, a white tee-shirt and a black tank top over the top of it.

"Gah, you all look like you should be in a politically correct bottled water commercial," House griped. To Chase he added, "Legs that white belong in the morgue."

"I put on sunscreen," came the protest, while Cameron smirked and Foreman flat out grinned. House waved them closer along with Wilson, and looked at each one of them a second before speaking.

"Okay, you're all here to do the good PR thing and show solidarity for PPTH and that's well and good for your little career-climbing agendas. However, for the sake of your jobs, I want you to form a nice little barrier between the rest of the pack and the two heads of hospital during this race."

"Why?" Foreman asked firmly. House stared at him a moment.

"Because whatever you want to believe, the race is all about them, so don't get any ideas about pulling a Haile Gebrselassie and getting out in front. Burton needs as much time and privacy as possible to make an ass of himself, and we're going to give it to him."

"You're not making any sense—" Cameron complained, but Wilson's expression shifted to something slightly worried.

He spoke up. "So the rumors are true?"

"I'm betting they are—and that they'll work to our advantage," House replied cryptically. "That is, if you and the rest of the girl's track team here can give them some privacy. At least for the majority of the race."

"Devious," Wilson nodded, still not smiling. "More and more scared of you."

"As well you should be," House replied. To the Ducklings he added, "Do as I say or risk my extra pissy wrath."

"Extra--?" Cameron began.

"—pissy?" Chase continued.

"—wrath?" Foreman finished, shaking his head. "Does that come with cole slaw?"

"Chortle, snicker, har-dee-har. Just do it."

00oo00oo00

Cuddy finished warming up and smiled briefly at the well-wishers gathering along the starting line of the race. She'd changed to a Princeton Plainsboro tee-shirt in cranberry with the logo in white across the chest and paired it with white shorts, glad that she'd gotten enough sun to look less than anemic. Her hair was tied back, and in one hand she toyed with the ear plugs.

"My, you're quite the vision," Joe Burton beamed, striding easily towards her. He was in a St. Sebastian sweatshirt with the sleeves artfully cut off, and a pair of designer running shorts. Cuddy noted his top of the line cross-trainers, still gleaming white.

"Thanks, you look . . . ready to run," she finished politely. Burton gave an 'aw shucks' look and shifted closer.

"Well seeing how you're the actual competition, I figured we'd be in this toe to toe—or would that be nose to nose?" He murmured in a lower voice.

Cuddy glanced at him and his smile went up a notch. "Nose to nose?"

"Certainly . . . although you have the advantage of me there, with yours. Quite the beak, isn't it?" Joe Burton followed this up with another smile, but Cuddy could see the calculation in his eyes. She smiled back humorlessly.

"Yes, it lets me know when something doesn't smell right. Excuse me—" She strode around a few other racers stretching out and looked in the distance for House.

The course for the run started at the pond, went down the jogging path and looped around the playground, then circled back through the arboretum of Princeton Plainsboro and ended in a long stretch from the parking structure to the finish line once again at the duck pond. It was a little over five kilometers and over fairly even surfaces. Currently seventy six people were signed up to run with a nearly balanced split of a third Princeton-Plainsboro employees, a third of them St. Sebastian employees and a third of them the general public.

Cuddy noted Wilson, Foreman, Chase and Cameron in the crowd and smiled briefly. She turned her gaze to the picnic benches and easily spotted Mrs. Farber, but House wasn't with her. The PA system called for the runners to move to the starting line, and Cuddy refocused her attention on the race, finding a spot in the front third of the crowd.

The announcer was some PR person from St. Sebastian's, reading off the purpose of the Fun Run and giving the goodwill/good sportsmanship speech, and Cuddy tuned it out, still fingering the tiny earplugs House had given her. She closed her hand over then when she felt someone move to her left side, and looked up to see Joe Burton smiling down at her.

"May the best man win . . . honey," he commented gently.

The starter's gun went off and the crowd surged forward amid cheers; after the first ten strides the runners shifted into staggered groups, with the pacesetters out in front, and the rest of the pack in layers behind them. Cuddy held back, discreetly working first one plug, then the other into her ears. Burton noticed nothing as he smiled and waved to people along the side of the route, easily keeping pace with her as he did so.

They ran.

The weather had cleared and the sun was out, warming up the day. Ahead, the jogging path wove under the trees lining it, and the dappled play of sunshine along the ground made beautiful images. Cuddy began increasing her stride, letting her pace lengthen. Ahead, people obligingly gave her room as they all ran on. Within a few minutes she was out in front—but not for long.

"So . . . not bad for a woman," Joe Burton commented, matching his stride to hers. "Actually, that's sort of sexist . . . what I really meant was, not bad for a Jew. Lots of women are athletes, but there aren't a lot of Jewish athletes."

Cuddy shot him a sidelong glance and said nothing. She brought her elbows in a little and concentrated on breathing. Her pony tail flew behind her, a dark, curly banner. Burton kept up with her, still speaking softly.

"No, athletics really aren't your people's strong point. Sure, lots of Jews in baseball, but I consider that out of the past, you know? Nowadays it's much more common to see Hebes in business suits than in track suits. Nice shorts, by the way . . ."

House kept an eye on the runners, his gaze focused on the two lead runners. The bobbing head of Chase and the stern glide of Foreman about three long strides behind Cuddy and Joe Burton were evident; through the field binoculars House noted their serious expressions. He grinned to himself for a moment, a humorless smile. Next to him sitting at the table, Mrs. Farber pursed her mouth. "Vell?"

"He's started . . . Foreman's looking furious, and Chase has his 'schoolboy listening to the big kids' expression on." House reported, then added, "Oh She-Beast, it's clear to me now that ZZ Top were writing about you---"

"--Oont Vilson?" Mrs. Farber asked.

House shook his head. "They never did a song about him, I'm sure—he's behind Foreman's shoulder, keeping up. Cameron's there too . . . we won't see them around the turn at the playground though."

Mrs. Farber made a little growl, and waited until House took the binoculars from his eyes. "How dit you know zis man vould do ziss?"

House grinned mirthlessly. "Because the first step in winning is to distract your enemy, and get them angry. It's a classic move, Marlena—isolate, irritate, eradicate. He's done it before, and I was counting on him trying the strategy here. So far, so good."

"I knew he vos a bat man," Mrs. Farber nodded to herself, "Poor Lisa—"

House said nothing, but reached down and gently squeezed Mrs. Farber's shoulder.

" . . . Of course I think it's impressive that you've kept in shape—a lot of JAPs go to fat once they get into administration you know— their asses balloon big time, and they start justifying candy dishes on the desk. Kosher at first, but given how greedy you people get, then it's everything . . . I just don't understand how you work at a hospital and still haven't had a nose job . . ."

Joe Burton rambled on in a pleasant tone, still matching Cuddy step for step as they made the turn around the swing set. Cuddy was in her zone, clearly, her breathing even, her stride a thing of beauty. She shot Burton a glance, her expression mild, and turned it back towards the path. The rest of the Fun Run crowd were now eight yards behind them, and there were fewer observers at this end of the course.

" . . . Because a quick rhinoplasty and nobody would even know you were a Jew girl. Even that dark body hair of yours could be bleached . . . "

Gritting her teeth, Cuddy made the turn and looked down the path, the sweat on her hairline trickling. She picked up the pace a bit.

" . . . But I guess that would be like painting a turd, huh? Can't change our inner defects . . . and let's face it, you've got plenty, honey. First of all you were born without balls, and that's a big strike against you right there . . ." Burton smiled. Sweat was rolling down his cheeks, but he sped up, dogging Cuddy on the left, big feet pounding.

Cuddy didn't look at him. The crowd dropped to ten yards back, and then fifteen. The two heads of hospital blazed through the arboretum together in tandem down the avenue of trees. The straightaway in front of the parking structure was coming up, and Joe Burton grinned again.

"Damn but you're a quiet one—most of the kike bitches I know sound like fucking Pomeranians on crack---"

Cuddy glanced at him, and suddenly, brilliantly, smiled. A little disconcerted, Joe Burton hesitated, and she spoke up, her tone husky and low.

"Good bye—"

In a brilliant burst of speed, Cuddy sped up, taking the lead in a quick dash of muscular grace. She flew over the straightaway, pumping hard, sailing ahead effortlessly. At the table, Mrs. Farber rose to her feet cheering loudly; House let the binoculars drop and stared at Cuddy, his expression one of fierce, almost beautiful pride as he watched her fly through the finish line ribbon. Moving quickly himself, he lumbered through the crowds and headed for her, keeping his gaze locked on her.

Cuddy circled, letting herself drop to a jog and trying to catch her breath. People were patting her on the back, and congratulating her while the PA system mentioned her time. House made it to her side, roughly bumping into people and pushing through them. He looked at her and smiled; she returned the gaze and pulled her earplugs out.

Joe Burton crossed the line, his grin as wide as ever, but the lazy calculating look in his eyes was gone, replaced by a narrowed fury. Several people moved to his side, including his personal assistant, offering him water. He took it, his gaze never leaving Cuddy as he did so.

More people crossed the line, and the order began to disappear from the finish line as it began to crowd up. Foreman crossed in, as did Cameron. House made his way over to Burton and nodded at him in commiseration, his free hand fumbling in his pocket.

"She beat you, huh?" House murmured, patting him on the back, hard. Burton looked at him, then back at Cuddy, surrounded by people.

"She got lucky."

"Come on—you're being generous—" House egged him a bit, following Burton further away from the crowds. "You know who the better runner is—"

"Damn straight!" Burton snarled, turning away from the race and walking away. "And it isn't her! I'm telling you that Lisa Cuddy is just another fucking kike bitch who got lucky, and if you ask me, she got elected to her spot by a sheeny-loving board of niggers and slants!"

The words echoed out, the amplification of the PA system carrying them out over the crowd, which had dropped into stunned silence. House blinked, looking affronted. "Wow, I can't believe you just said that."

"I didn't say it!" Joe Burton cried out, and his words echoed again. "It's a mistake—those aren't my words!"

"So you didn't just call the Dean of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital a . . .?" House led off. Joe Burton tugged at his tee-shirt, trying to find the source. He reached behind him and tugged the little microphone off his back, snarling at House

"Oh you crippled motherfucking Jew-lover, I'm going to kill you—"

Joe Burton lunged at him; House lashed out with a quick, powerful right into the other man's stomach. Burton folded up, dropping the microphone. House stepped on the tiny device, pulverizing it underfoot as he let Joe Burton drop heavily to the ground.

He looked over the stunned crowd in the distance.

"Is there a doctor here?" House called.


	10. Chapter 10

Because she was so slender, she started to show early, a rounded little bulge between her lean hips, and House gloried in the opportunity to comment on it nearly every morning. Caught between vanity and pride, Cuddy responded according to her mood, but her griping lacked sincerity, and more than once House caught her gently placing the palm of her hand along the little curve in an absent-minded caress when she was preoccupied with other things.

Mrs. Farber dedicated herself to cooking, and somehow managed to make serious nutrition palatable; House tried to complain about her talent for hiding vegetables and adding fiber, but he ate what was set before him and occasionally fished food off of Cuddy's plate as well—or tried to, anyway. Marlena was still quick enough to smack his hand half of the time, and when she succeeded, House would sulk and fuss about his wounded fingers.

The architect came.

House brooded a bit; Cuddy assumed it was all that issue of changes, and in a way she was right, but not in the way she thought. House's concern wasn't so much for the blueprints or the cost; his apprehension centered more on what would come to light once the contractors began to dig out the foundation. It was this thought in mind that he walked into Lionel St. Simon's office and stared meaningfully at the lawyer.

St. Simon glanced up, gave a curt nod, and went back to his _Wall Street Journal_. House waited, leaning against the door until St. Simon's deep voice came from behind the newspaper, sounding wary. "Yes, Doctor House?"

"I need some information. Legal information."

"Is this a hospital-related matter or a private one?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"Billing-wise, yes," St. Simon murmured, peeking over the top of the paper. He studied House for a moment, and spoke again. "Not a single shyster comment . . . you're either seriously worried or losing your touch, Doctor House. Sit down."

House did, taking his time in settling himself into the chair. St. Simon folded his newspaper and sat back in his chair, waiting for the other man to speak. House did, slowly.

"What we discuss here is covered under client confidentiality, right?"

"Of course" St. Simon agreed gently. "So what's on your mind?"

"Cuddy is . . . remodeling our home. Since it's going to be . . . extensive, there's a very good chance that a few . . . things . . . might be uncovered in the process," House replied in a slow, measured tone.

St. Simon blinked. "A few . . . things?" he asked skeptically.

"Skeletal remains, specifically. And before you ask, no, none of them are former patients of mine," came the growl. House looked up at the ceiling and scratched his jaw. "Bottom line, Blue Brook used to be a mob dumping ground about thirty years ago."

St. Simon blinked again. "And you know this. . . . how?"

"Uncovered a few skulls in the flowerbeds, that sort of thing—" House muttered. "Nothing recent, but since I don't have any sort of map, or inventory, I have no clue about what—or who—else maybe taking a turf nap out along our peaceful domicile."

"Oh dear," St. Simon sighed. "Yes, I can see your dilemma, particularly if the first unearthed remains can be identified."

"Bingo," House agreed. "If the police ID one body, they'll figure on a dozen more and that will mean bulldozers, media publicity, legal hassles, and worst of all, potential threats to the She-Beast and myself." House looked grimly determined, "I've got no intention of going through all of that."

St. Simon gave a nod of commiseration, pursed his lips, and pulled a legal pad out of a drawer. "All right—if I'm going to figure out how to help you, I need to know everything about your property. Start at the beginning."

House did, speaking concisely as he laid out the history and acquisition of Blue Brook Dairy; St. Simon asked a few questions and jotted a note or two, then sighed after a while, setting his pen down gently. "This IS a bit . . . complicated. You and Doctor Cuddy clearly own the private land, but with the past history of the site, the police will have more than enough probable cause to issue a warrant for the entire property. Once the contractors uncover anything that can be identified as human remains, they're obligated to report it—"

"—That's it," House replied softly, narrowing his eyes. "The contractors."

"The contractors . . . " St. Simon murmured in confusion, and a moment later he gave a slow nod as he caught on. "Of course, the contractors. It's a wonderful thing when you can hire whatever construction company you want to do your private remodeling . . . particularly one like, say, the Arnello Brothers."

"Yessss," House nodded, back, his expression bright and merciless. "Because they're an . . . efficient . . . outfit. Probably be glad to do the job and clear out any . . . debris from the property."

"Precisely," St. Simon agreed, feeling both amused and wary. "I'm sure they'd be . . . discreet, as well."

"Since any adverse publicity might put them and their associates in the limelight as well . . . yeah, I think it's safe to say that a quick personal conversation with the head of Arnello Construction Inc. might do the trick."

House rose to his feet, turning for the door.

"Do be careful," St. Simon advised quietly. "Deals with the devil can have a habit of coming back to bite one on the ass."

"I've got the scars to prove it," House agreed nonchalantly. "Still—if it's a matter of facing the Mafia, or facing a pregnant and cranky Cuddy . . . "

St. Simon's deep laugh followed House out of the office.

00oo00oo00

"Hanna, Hanna, fo fanna," Wilson sang softly, wiping the baby's bottom gently and pulling the diaper up between her small legs. She watched her father alertly, small fists waving when he bent down and very lightly blew against her tummy. Instantly she broke into a quick smile, legs kicking happily. Wilson laughed. "That's my girl," he told her as his hands fastened the tape tabs securely.

He picked her up and brought her to his chest, tucking in his chin to look at her while he cradled her head gently. "There we go—dry again, and ready for lunch—"

Emily was seated in the consultation chair of Wilson's office, unbuttoning her blouse; she caught his brightly naughty glance and laughed. "You are enjoying this waaaaay to much, Hobbes."

"What? A natural biological function in a tender bonding moment, and I'm being accused of lechery?" he tried to protest, but the waggle of his eyebrows and dimple at the corner of his mouth made Emily smirk back. She took Hannah gently and shifted the baby along her arm, expertly teasing the nipple along the already open mouth; with enthusiasm, Hannah latched on and began nursing happily.

Wilson perched himself against the edge of his desk, watching them both, his expression soft. "I consider it the best of both worlds, actually."

"I'm glad your mother taught you to share your playthings—" Emily murmured back, delighted to see the blush across Wilson's face as his shoulders shook in quiet laughter.

"MY mother bottle-fed us, thank you SO much—" he protested firmly. "Not that I remember it personally."

"I'd hope not—" Emily grinned. She shifted Hanna a bit and looked again to Wilson, her smile widening.

Puzzled, he spoke. "Yes?"

"I stopped in to see Yang this afternoon. I've been given a green light for . . . piracy."

Wilson gave a happy little sigh, and came off of the desk, moving to bend and softly nuzzle Emily's hairline. "Oh ho—so that explains all the smirking."

"I wasn't smirking!"

"Not you; the nurses," he explained with a smile. "There are no secrets where they're concerned."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Oy. Well at least they're fairly discreet about it." Shifting a little she looked down at her daughter and murmured, "Slow down, Piglet—you've got a whole other side to go."

Wilson laughed and went around his desk, settling into his chair and leaning back into it still watching, his gaze gentle. "So . . . dare we make plans for this evening?"

Emily looked up at him. She gently worked a pinky along the corner of Hannah's mouth, breaking the suction, and shifted the baby to the other breast in quick, efficient moves. Hannah snuffled a little, then latched on, more slowly this time. "Oh I think that would be niiiiice, if we get a certain little person settled in for the night."

"Not if; when," Wilson corrected, his eyes twinkling. "Call it pirate prerogative."

"Sounds to me like someone's plank needs walking—" Emily snorted.

"I can't believe you just said that," Wilson laughed. At that moment Hannah gave a little snort of protest and let go of her mother's nipple, milky bubbles dribbling from the corner of her chin. Emily wiped them away with a burp rag and gently lifted the baby to her shoulder.

"It's the wench in me," came her reply. "I'll do my best to keep Hannah Banana here from napping, and if you can get away from the hospital by six, we'll see what we can do about—"

"—Getting my jollies rogered?" Wilson murmured. "My horn swoggled?"

"Your spyglass polished," Emily agreed with an arch of her eyebrow, "Captain."

00oo00oo00

Cuddy closed her eyes and yawned. The meeting was running long, and she'd already discarded her shoes under the board room table. Janet Cosovi was yammering on and ON about grants for the specialties in sports medicine and Khan looked as if he was about to fall asleep. The late August afternoon sunshine filled the entire board room with a sort of drowsy feel, and a sense of hunger was prickling at her.

Four months into the pregnancy and things were looking cautiously good. House was still sniping at her, but at times Cuddy would catch him watching as she popped her prenatals or faithfully did her hour of yoga out on the back patio. The amniocentesis had gone off just fine, and although Doctor Howard knew the sex of the baby, she was the only one that did—neither Cuddy nor House wanted to know.

"Black it out and keep it to yourself," House had ordered the obstetrician. "Let the Demon Spawn confound us all."

"Oy—" Howard had sighed, but done it with a Sharpie marker.

The mild morning sickness still hit periodically, but House's cracks about that usually centered on her unfairly hogging the bathroom. She'd passed the first trimester, feeling in turn confident and nervous, but now she could relax a little.

It was a unique feeling, and Cuddy indulged in moments of quiet gratitude for it all.

" . . . and that's where the matter sits until the mid-semester meeting. Any additions to the minutes?" Janet concluded dryly. A few people around the boardroom stirred, but no one spoke. Janet sighed. "Okay then. We'll all meet up in two weeks—meeting adjourned."

Everyone began shuffling, picking up folders and rising from their chairs. A few people smiled at Cuddy on the way out; she stayed seated until the last one left in the board room, and then pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, looking at it thoughtfully.

An old wive's tale. Nothing more than the power of suggestion coupled with heightened sense of taste and smell. Nevertheless---

Cuddy wanted it. Wanted it badly enough to . . . negotiate for it. She hit the first speed dial number and clutched the phone anxiously before common sense got the better of her.

"What?" came the distracted greeting. She took in a breath and played with her shoes under the table, moving them with her stocking feet.

"I—nothing," she mumbled and snapped the phone shut, feeling stupid. A second later it rang, and with a sigh Cuddy answered it. "House—"

"You called me, which means I can either get the truth out of you over the phone, or I can track you down and demand answers loudly and in the presence of others—choose wisely." Came the annoyed comment. Cuddy bit back a laugh.

"Fine. You want the truth? I want a funnel cake."

A long pause came over the line; Cuddy bit her lip, picturing House's expression.

"A . . . funnel cake. A deep fried concoction of flour, yeast, soda, sugar and eggs saturated in the harshest grease known to the human digestive system and liberally sprinkled with powdered sugar," he murmured in his most seductive tone. Cuddy squirmed, wriggling her toes.

"Yes."

"And you want me to go GET this toxic bit of fair food and smuggle it to you away from the protective glare of Marlena Farber, so you can wolf it down in an orgy of guilty pleasure and chalk it up to the Evil Sprog growing deep within your Mommy bits?"

"House—"

"Face the music time—yes or no?"

"Yes, okay? Yes I want a funnel cake and I want it now."

"Ahhh---" came the gloat. "So now that we have that out in the open, it's time for negotiations. A funnel cake means a trip out to Elizabethtown Fair Grounds, which means you can give me half an hour to fetch it, I won't tell Farber, AND no clinic for the rest of the week."

"You can go get it for me now, be back in half an hour and I'll give you the day off from clinic," Cuddy countered, leaning back and enjoying the banter. On the line, House snorted.

"Not good enough."

"I'll throw in a blow job later tonight—" she murmured.

"You have my attention. Move it up to before we leave work and we have a deal."

"Blow job, no time off from clinic."

"Sorry, my battery's dying—Funnel cake for the afternoon off and a meat flute concert, got it—"

Cuddy hung up and laughed softly to herself. With a sigh she slipped her feet back into her pumps and rose out of the chair. She made her way out and towards her office, wondering if she had time for a quick nap before House got back from the fair grounds.

The phone on her desk rang as she stepped in, and she picked up the receiver, cradling it between her shoulder and neck. "Cuddy here."

"Hel-LO dear, just calling to check in and let you know I've got the plans done! Any chance I can bring them by for a quick peeky-lookover today?" came the cheery tones of Ian Calder.

Cuddy smiled. "That would be great! When can you come by?"

"Oh I could pop in about three if that's good for you. I think you're going to love the designs. Even Mr. Evil should like them."

"He loves that name, you know," Cuddy told the architect, who laughed.

"Yes, well he might be an annoying antisocial bastard, but he's talented and good to you, so I'll put up with his asshole-ish shenanigans if we can get this remodeling done. See you at three?"

"We'll be here," Cuddy assured him and hung up.

00oo00oo00

Marlena Farber looked at the recipe card again, and added the next ingredient to the pot. The stew was supposed to feed four, which meant two servings for Greg, one for her and one for Lisa. It was an old one, and the printing was faded now, but a classic in the repertoire. Good for a pregnant woman, definitely.

She hummed happily and went to the back door to dump part of the vegetable cuttings to the compost heap when she saw the puppy hiding behind the corner of the flower bed. Startled, Marlena dropped one of the carrot tops and the puppy looked at her warily.

"Vot are you do-ink here?" she asked softly, not wanting to scare the little animal off. She'd had plenty of experience with strays and ferals back on South Lace Road, and knew the sooner she rounded them up and got them to the shelter the better.

The puppy trotted over at the sound of her voice, more confident now, and she held out her hand, letting him sniff it. He was a lanky pup, probably no more than three months old with some Shepherd and possibly Poodle in him, given the perk of his ears and the soft brindle color of his coat. Marlena cooed at him. "Sooch a brave vun . . . "

And within twenty minutes the dog was eating a mound of diced ham from a plate on the kitchen floor as Marlena washed her hands and consulted the recipe card once more. She glanced down at her companion who gave the now empty plate a last loving lick, and nudged it across the floor with his nose.


	11. Chapter 11

"Who is that?" Cuddy asked, looking at the furry pile curled up on House's recliner. Behind her House loomed, his glare deep and foreboding.

"Not who, what is that? It looks like a toupee that escaped from the trash compactor," came the unkind observation. House raised his cane and gave the fur pile a tentative poke; the puppy stretched out, flexing his legs and passing a little gas.

Cuddy laughed. House did not.

"The only scruffy thing dispensing methane around here will be me," he announced balefully. Cuddy shot him a sidelong glance.

"Which you do unceasingly, come to speak of it—must be all the fiber you're getting these days."

"Yes, well still can't hold a candle to you—literally," House replied dryly. "When I call you Toots I mean it, you know."

"House," Cuddy sighed, "Shut up. Marlena, is this your dog?"

Mrs. Farber, who had been ignoring the conversation looked up from her knitting and shook her head. "Not mine—I am a ket person."

The puppy hopped off the recliner, tail wagging as he snuffled House's shoes, circling around the man and breathing deeply. House watched him, all the way up to the point that the puppy leaped up and buried his inquisitive nose deep into House's crotch.

"Whoa there, Fido—not even airport security is allowed to probe THAT deeply. Call him off, Cuddy—speak to him in flatulence—"

Ignoring the jibe, Cuddy knelt and called the puppy over; delighted at her soothing tone the dog scrambled away from House and leaped around Cuddy, trying to lick her hands. She laughed and led the puppy over to the sofa, calming him with slow petting as House made a show of wiping off his recliner and sitting in it.

"He's not staying," House grumbled. "Fuzzy-assed mooch, looking for a comfortable home and three meals a day, a chance to lie around and scratch his balls—"

"Sounds familiar—" Cuddy murmured, shooting Mrs. Farber a glance. Marlena pursed her mouth tighter to keep from laughing. House caught the look and growled.

"Hey, hey, I work for a living; I earn the right to lie around and—"

"—None of zat," Mrs. Farber broke in firmly. "Ze poopy is just zat—a poopy."

This time Cuddy DID laugh; Mrs. Farber smirked good-naturedly as House settled more deeply into chair. "Yeah, well that aptly named mongrel is headed for the pound first thing in the morning."

"We can't call a dog 'Poopy,'" Cuddy protested, running her hands over the puppy's back. He promptly flopped over and offered his belly for scratching, which she did, lightly raking her nails along his pink stomach. The dog gave a happy little yowling sound, and House looked over.

"Should I get you two a room?" Came his sardonic comment. Cuddy laughed.

"No need to be jealous . . . "

"I'm not jealous; I'm practical. Another mouth to feed right now isn't what we need."

Mrs. Farber rolled her eyes. "Don't vorry, Hasi; I vas going to put meinself out on ze ice flow tomorrow—"

"So noble, so self-sacrificing, but leave now and the She-Beast there would beat me to death with my own cane. All I'm asking is what use do we have for a damned dog, that's all," House murmured, closing his eyes. It had been a long day, and he wanted another Vicodin. Cuddy rose and came over to him, resting a cool hand on his forehead.

"You need food and sleep," she announced. He shook his head under her touch.

"Crappy diagnosis. I need drugs, food, and sex and then maybe sleep. What's cooking?"

"Chicken schtew," Mrs. Farber announced, rising stiffly from her chair and setting aside the knitting. "Unt potatoes."

"How come you don't cook like that?" House demanded of Cuddy, who helped to pull him out of the lounger.

She snorted. "Because I'm an administrator, not a chef."

All through dinner Mrs. Farber and Cuddy discussed names for the puppy who circled around under the table like a shark at a pier. House loftily ignored the entire conversation, making his way through two bowls of stew, and it wasn't until Cuddy growled, "Ah-HA!" that he flinched, looking vaguely guilty.

"What?"

"You're slipping pieces of chicken under the table," she accused him.

House looked affronted. "I am not."

"You ARE too!"

"Not."

"Too!"

"Not."

"Not," Mrs. Farber broke in quietly. "He's been schlipping his carrots under ze table. Grreg hates carrots."

"You hate carrots?" Cuddy demanded. House sighed hugely and looked upward, the very picture of annoyance.

"Yes, I hate carrots, all right?"

"Fine," Cuddy murmured softly, amused. "I just . . . never knew. I guess I'll never stuff you with carrot cake."

Even as the little joke left her lips, she suddenly realized neither Mrs. Farber nor House were smiling. For a heavy, awkward moment there was silence.

Then--

"When I was seven, I was forced to eat three bunches of the damned things in a single sitting," House murmured quietly, his expression defensively vulnerable. "At that time a bunch was roughly three pounds, give or take. I was told to eat them all or face the consequences."

Nobody spoke in the sudden quiet at the table. Alarmed, Cuddy looked to Mrs. Farber, who had her lips pressed tightly together, her sorrowful gaze down at her bowl.

House continued. "So, the math worked out to nine pounds of carrots into a seventy pound kid, with the threat that if I threw any of it up, I'd have to eat that too. I suppose I should resent the authority and not the vegetable, but my taste buds won't cooperate."

He paused and added heavily, "Maybe there is a use for the damned dog."

Cuddy had no further appetite; she pushed her bowl away and slipped away from the table, passing through the living room towards the elevator. She rode up to the master bedroom and threw herself onto the bed after kicking off her shoes, curling into a ball, one hand wrapped protectively around the little bulge low on her belly.

After a while, she heard the elevator descend and rise again; heard the creak of the floorboards and the thump of the cane as House crossed the room. Cuddy knew he was staring at her back, and she wasn't ready to roll over and face him.

House spoke. "Stop being upset."

"That's a little like asking me to stop being pregnant."

"We can keep the dog, if you want," House offered, managing to insinuate through his tone that this was the ultimate sacrifice on his part. Cuddy rolled over and glared at him, her mouth just on the fine edge of trembling.

House sighed and motioned for her to scoot over; when she did, he hung his cane on the headboard and stretched out, relaxing inch by inch.

He stared at the ceiling as he put one hand behind his head. "Lisa, tell me this—was your father all cuddly and supportive and great?"

She propped her head on one hand, near to House but not touching him. "You know he wasn't. But that wasn't . . . his style. My dad was a musician; yeah he was temperamental and demanding at times, but he wasn't an outright bastard!"

"Are you sure?" House murmured, closing his eyes. Cuddy began to protest, but before she could speak, she thought better of it and stopped. House made a small triumphant sound deep in his throat.

"My dad never tortured me," Cuddy managed in a whisper. "And you can euphemize it all you want, Greg, but what your dad did to you was . . . sadistic."

"How much of the year was your dad on the road? How many times did he miss all those special milestones in your life, She-Beast? Did he make your birthdays? Your high school graduation? Hell, your college or medical school ones for that matter?" House replied in a deceptively simple tone. "Because the Damian Cuddy I met out at Tudor Manor was a selfish, egotistical bastard who was jealous of his daughter's success and had been for years."

"He was delusional," Cuddy rasped, blinking hard. "Not in command of his faculties and you know it."

"Yeah, but that was only a recent development. Get real, Lisa—neither of us had good fathers, and any psychologist would claim it's why we're so driven, career-wise. All that over-compensation to nurture on a global level. I'm sure Mansfield believes that crap."

"So . . . " Cuddy stroked her stomach bleakly, "You're saying we're going to suck at this."

House snorted. "Nooooo, I'm saying we're . . . challenged. I had Farber on my side, so I didn't end up in jail or dead. Evil Spawn will have you, so I'm saving up now for that trip to Oslo for the 2027 Nobels."

At that Cuddy laughed, and reached over to rest a hand on House's chest. "Jesus when you dream, you dream big, don't you?"

"It's a fact that Nobel Winners get asked to be sperm donors a lot," House pointed out. "And if I push the genetics connection, I could get a piece of that action."

"You'll be sixty-eight by then," Cuddy reminded him. "Too old to be a reliable shooter."

"Gimme a nice Levitra/Vicodin cocktail and we'll see," he grumbled back, not pleased to have his fantasy deflated. "And a Swedish babe with hooters."

"Swedish girls are overrated," Cuddy murmured absently, earning a quick, intrigued glance from House. She smiled enigmatically in return, and House gave a little grunt.

"Spill."

"Oh you know . . . the Eighties . . . . it was a time of . . . . experimentation . . . " Cuddy teased throatily. House sucked in a breath at the onslaught of sensual girl on girl imagery and reached for her, pulling her across his chest.

"I want full and lurid details—" he demanded, nuzzling her neck and plucking at her shirt buttons. "—every naughty bit—"

"I bet you do—"

Marlena heard the sounds overhead and smiled in relief as she quietly finished up the dishes. Given the degree of enthusiasm, she was sure it would be a while before either of them came down again, and that was as it should be.

She looked down at the dog, who was busy licking leftover stew from a little bowl. "You're schtaying. Oont you need a name."

The puppy didn't look up until the bowl was completely clean; Mrs. Farber let him out the back door and waited there as he wandered around the bushes, trying to find the right one to water.

She sighed and closed her eyes, remembering, drifting back to the painful Night of the Carrots nearly forty-one years ago . . .

"_They're full of vitamin A, and if you ever plan on becoming a pilot, you'll need good eyes."_

"_I don't want to be a pilot."_

"_Eat. I'm not going to let you get away with wasting food, Greg. There are kids in Africa starving to death while you've got a full plate there. It's not like it's liver."_

"_John, can we talk about this?"_

"_No, Hon. He's got to learn that there are rules, and one of them is not wasting anything. Mrs. F, bring in the rest of the carrots so we can get this lesson learned here and now."_

"_He's choking!"_

"_He's faking . . . vomit, Greg, and you'll be eating that too—trust me, it's better to keep it down."_

"_John, he's had enough!"_

"_Hon, he'll be fine, but next time he'll remember this before he loads up on anything. Where are those carrots, Mrs. Farber?"_

_Memories of John House, tall and determined, gently nudging her aside and pulling open the refrigerator, rummaging in the vegetable crisper while she and Blythe tried to stand between him and the boy . . . _

_And Greg. Thin, but with unblinking blue eyes, mechanically chewing in loud crunches, his skinny chest heaving with the effort of not gagging—_

_She'd nearly lost it then, and wanted nothing more than to grab the child and run; take him away from that relentlessly calm father and whimpering ineffective mother, the two of them tugging the boy's soul between them like a frayed rope._

_Greg had deserved better; a hell of a lot better than what he had._

_She stayed. Ultimately it was the greater good; simply being there made a difference and they both knew it. Greg turned to her first for his decisions and diatribes; she kept him fed and loved. Not that they said it much, nor needed to—both of them were stoic in their own ways, handling their own pains._

_But to have been able to spit in John House's face, just once—_

Mrs. Farber crossed herself and stepped out into the yard, calling the dog in gentle tones.

00oo00oo00

Mrs. Farber's Chicken Stew

INGREDIENTS: 

2 tablespoons olive oil

6 slices bacon, diced

8 ounces mushrooms, sliced

4 large carrots, sliced

1 red bell pepper, cut in 1-inch squares (or use roasted red peppers from jar)

1 green bell pepper, cut in 1-inch squares

1 bunch green onions sliced in 1/2-inch, about half of green included

4 chicken breast halves, boneless, cut in 1/2- to 1-inch chunks

1 can (4oz) sliced ripe olives

2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

3 tablespoons tomato paste

1 (14.5 oz) can tomatoes

1/4 cup chicken broth

1/2 teaspoon dried ground marjoram

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon pepper or mixture of black and red pepper

PREPARATION: 

Heat olive oil in a large skillet; sauté bacon until browned. Add mushrooms, peppers, and green onions and sauté for a minute. Add vinegar and cook 1 minute more, scraping up the browned bits from the bottom of the pan.

Set aside.

Place chicken in a 3 1/2 -quart or larger slow cooker. Add sautéed bacon and vegetable mixture to the pot, then the olives. Combine the remaining ingredients in a bowl and mix. Pour over chicken and vegetables in the slow cooker. Cover and cook on low for 8 to 10 hours.

Serves 3 to 4, unless one of them is House—in that case, fill up on bread and salad while plotting revenge.


	12. Chapter 12

In the end, everyone called the dog a different name, simply because they couldn't agree on any single one. House called him Mooch, short for MoochenHund, which he felt was the most accurate label possible. Marlena called the little dog Manfred, after her brother, claiming it was a good, dignified name, and her brother wouldn't mind sharing it.

Cuddy called him Sweetie, and Good Boy and Buddy; since she was the one to slip him little treats and pet him affectionately, he responded to whatever she called him, with alacrity. Within days, he had a collar, a set of bowls and a bed; House complained bitterly.

"It took me years to get that sort of support from you!" he grumbled. Cuddy shot his groin a significant glance.

"Should I schedule you for a neutering too?"

"You've already tried and failed," House replied testily. "Several times. And just remember, if it wasn't for my mighty orbs of life, you wouldn't be looking like you're smuggling a pumpkin and two cantaloupes under your shirt."

She brayed. "Mighty orbs of life?" Cuddy let herself roll over from her cross-legged position on the floor, scattering the baby name books in her hilarity. The puppy bounced over and licked her bare toes, making her giggle again.

At the piano, House shot her an impatient look. "You wanted the goods; I delivered. That qualifies as 'mighty.'"

"I suppose my paltry contribution to this baby is too insignificant to mention," Cuddy replied softly. "Fertile egg, gestation, tiny things like that."

House waved a hand. "Minor. Incubation is nothing more than glorified housing."

"Keep talking and I'm going to send some mighty orbs into orbit," Cuddy responded, arching an eyebrow at him. Defensively, House launched into a quick rendition of 'Baby Face' and she rolled her eyes. Hefting herself up, she reached for one of the baby name books and brought it over to him. "Okay, I need to know what we can't name our kid, Greg. I'm serious here."

"John or James," came the prompt, curt reply.

Cuddy gave a slow nod. "Or . . . Damien."

"Or Damien," House agreed softly. He kept playing, shifting into a soft waltz that she didn't recognize, the melody melancholy and sweet. "Or Stacey, for that matter. I'd prefer we didn't go with Myron either, since that's ancient Greek for "Beat me up all through my formative years until I'm bitter enough to take a gun to school."

Cuddy tried not to smile; instead, she dropped a hand to her rounded stomach under the maternity tee shirt. "Samuel? Matthew? Phillip?"

Whatever you want. We saw how the dog fiasco worked out, so I'm not expecting you to take any contribution of mine seriously," House muttered.

"Greg Junior?"

"NO. Sticking a tag like Junior on a kid automatically denigrates him for life under the shadow of his namesake. I have enough notoriety for two, but I'm not sharing. Besides, Gregory sucks."

Cuddy stared at him patiently, waiting for further explanation, but House ignored her and shifted into slow jazz riffs, closing his eyes in concentration, his torso leaning forward. She waddled over and sat on the bench beside him; House grudgingly gave her some room, and for a moment, she leaned against him.

"I always liked your name. All the Gregorys I know are tall and thin. Gregory Peck, Gregory Sierra, Dick Gregory, that CSI character . . . "

"Let's not forget the cockroach king, Gregor Samsa," House murmured. "A real winner in the literary world. And far too many popes to count."

"Gregory Peck," Cuddy repeated, her voice slightly huskier. House glared at her.

"Dead."

"Still . . . okay, okay, no Greg Juniors," she grumbled, but good-naturedly. "And no baby Lisa either. How about Rachel?"

House shrugged. "Biblical, nothing more. If you like it, go with it."

Cuddy looked askance at him. "Don't you have anything to offer? Anything serious?"

He turned to catch her gaze, and Cuddy spotted an amused lightness in his gaze. "Marlena for a middle name. If it's a girl."

Cuddy nodded gently. "I'm good with it. So other than that, the whole name thing is on MY head?"

"You got it. Besides—this is the sort of thing you love. Pursuit of le nom juste. Very Dean-ish of you. Leave it in my hands and we'd have a porn star or a guitarist."

Cuddy shot him a dry look. "No daughter of mine is getting named Tawny, or Deja Blue, thank you very much."

"See? Your mediating influence is clearly needed to keep the Demon Spawn from further victimization."

"I suspect," Cuddy muttered, "There will be plenty of that coming up anyway."

00oo00

Like the leaves, September drifted by, along with October. House became more distant, spending more time out and away from Blue Brook; Cuddy fretted quietly, but he always returned. Marlena knitted and cooked, not saying much, but keeping a soothing presence in the house.

Arnello Construction laid the foundation for the additional rooms. Cuddy had wanted to see it done, but both House and Marlena kept her away, citing hazardous materials in their arguments. When Cuddy had given up in exasperation and left the room, House rounded on Mrs. Farber.

"How long have you known?"

She shrugged in that infuriatingly calm way of hers. "A vhile. Ze poopy dug up part of a jaw, oont I er, deschsposed of it."

"I knew that dog would be a pain in the ass," House muttered sourly.

Marlena shook her head. "He's not—oont how long haf YOU known?"

It was House's turn to look chagrined. He glanced away. "Since the fish pond. I checked with a lawyer about it."

Marlena huffed, her hands on her hips. "Oooh, oont so zat's vhy we haff ze Cosa Nostra tramping in oont using our bassroom now?"

House made a face. "Well I don't want them to pee in the yard. Besides, they're experts at . . . discretionary removal of incriminating evidence."

"Ha!" she remarked sourly, "Evidence zat zey created in ze first place! Just make sure zey get it all, Grrregory—"

"Jahwolh!" he shot back, half-smirking, and lurched out to supervise.

00oo00

The first snow took everyone by surprise, but the remodeling was already done, and slightly under budget too. House suspected the Arnellos preferred to be discreetly efficient rather than draw out the contract. They'd put the architect's design into place with a minimum of fuss, and Cuddy was now in her element, decorating, at least as much as she could, given her growing rotundity.

House was a little fascinated by it. For so many years, Cuddy had been slight and lean; a sleek kitten of a woman built along the lines of a classic sports car. Now she was more like a . . . . fertility goddess. He remembered the ancient fetish dolls vaguely from some anthropology lecture—rounded and lush, worshipped images of fecundity and good health. House noted that some of the changes in Cuddy were . . . arousing. Her larger chest was a draw; certainly, as was the relaxed serenity when she waddled past him at times.

He'd always assumed that sex with a pregnant woman would be a turn-off; awkward and less a matter of passion than habit and duty. Finding out he was utterly wrong was a surprise, and a bit unnerving. Cuddy was more sensitive, more responsive, more demanding than ever. She'd sent him several obscene text messages one day while he was at clinic, and House finally had to corner her in the Pediatric Nurse's Lounge, both of them putting the padded cot there to good, if somewhat squeaky, use.

Bizarre. Cuddy's come hither smile had some extra tinge of enticement now that she was so gloriously . . . round, and even the novelty of seeing her slow-footed brought out strange responses from him. He dropped his pace when walking with her. He—the whiner with the cane—held doors open. He even managed a foot rub or two; grudgingly, because anything else would have been suspicious. And now that there was snow on the ground, a tiny additional anxiety rose up somewhere inside.

He glared at the flakes drifting out of the sky, and rubbed his thigh. Snow. Almost worst than rain, really. At least all rain generally did was get a person wet. Snow added the discomfort of chilling a victim, and blinding their vision as well.

Snow made his thigh ache. He couldn't ride the motorcycle in it, and hated driving in it, even with an automatic transmission.

The thought of Cuddy driving in it bothered him. The thought of Cuddy, close to her due date and still blithely buckling herself into her Jaguar, bothered him.

Snow.

00oo00

Cuddy sighed. She carefully packed up the baby shower gifts, more touched than she wanted to admit at the largess provided by the nurses. The ones here at PPTH were a tough and efficient group, and she admired them more than three quarters of her doctors if the truth was known. Most of the nurses had been here three years or more, and nearly all of them had worked with her in one capacity or another.

A twinge. Cuddy growled and rubbed her expanded belly, waiting for it to subside.

They had soft hearts, and practical natures these workers; Cuddy looked over the gifts of diapers, simethicone drops and pacifiers with a smile; trust a nurse to know what was actually useful to a new mother. She glanced out the window at the falling snow and sighed a little, then loaded up, trying to manage the box of presents, her briefcase, and purse in one load.

The roundness was still weird. Cuddy couldn't quite get the hang of a new center of balance, and the morning she first had to roll out of bed still had her slightly freaked out. House of course kept staring at her, sometimes as if she was a giant cookie and sometimes as if she was in a circus, and none of that helped either.

The loving was still pretty damned good though, she admitted to herself. House's Mr. Happy was still firmly thrilled to see her, even if she did feel like Violet Beauregard minus the purple coloring right now.

Cuddy made her way out of the hospital, waving off offers of help and fighting another Braxton-Hicks as she did so.

It was going to be soon— in the two weeks or so. Cecily had told her the baby had dropped, and Cuddy had a birthing room up in Maternity all picked out. The corner one that overlooked part of the picnic area, actually. She wanted a nice view and that was the best that the hospital had. Her suitcase was already here, standing near the door inside her office, ready to be carried up when the time came, and she had her phone list tucked into it.

Now all she had left to do before going on leave was to finish up the nursery. In a moment of pure evil, she and Marlena had decided to go with a bunny theme for the nursery, and House glared every time a new bit of rabbit décor went up. There was a lovely border up near the ceiling, of cute bunnies romping over green hills, daisies in their mouths. A white crib with bunny decals on the end of it stood against one wall, and on the oak rocking chair, a lovely, fluffy throw with mama and baby bunnies lay draped across the back. Even the mobile had small bunnies dangling from it.

"Häschen überall," Mrs. Farber had told him with gleeful delight. He poked at a giant stuffed rabbit that sat in the corner of the crib.

"Ich hasse häschen," he had announced dourly, adding, "The only thing bunnies are good at are making pellets and more bunnies."

"Clearly your totem animal," Cuddy had told him as she measured the window for curtains.

"More like ze olt grrrey hare," Mrs. Farber had interjected.

House had scowled. "The only rabbit worthy of respect is Bugs Bunny, and considering his propensity for cross-dressing, he's not as much of a role-model as I'd like for the Demon Spawn. I'm betting our child will be more like . . . Raving Rabbids."

That had been a month ago, and at this point House seemed resigned to a nursery that resembled a bunny hutch.

Cuddy waddled her way to the parking lot, feeling the snow stick to her hair. With her hands full, she couldn't brush it off, and she hurried a little, wanting to be out of the cold. All day the weatherman had been predicting that the brunt of the snow would pass them by, but the flurries were getting thicker, and Cuddy breathed a sigh of relief when she reached her car.

She loaded up the gifts in the trunk, climbed into the driver's seat and pulled out her cellphone. Mrs. Farber answered on the second ring. "Ja?"

"It's me. On my way home."

Another twinge. Cuddy was sure the baby didn't like the cold either.

"Goot. Drrrive carefully. Ze are predicting about a foot of snow before tomorrow."

"Great—I'll be careful," Cuddy replied soothingly. "Any chance of soup for dinner?"

"Golden mushroom wiz chive rolls oont green beans," came the prompt reply, and Cuddy laughed.

"Sounds great. Be home soon—"

She buckled up, backed out, and drove out of the parking lot into the early twilight.


	13. Chapter 13

It was ten days into December, and there were still lots of leftovers from Thanksgiving. House was working his way through a plate of dark meat and whipped potatoes in the kitchen when Cuddy lumbered in the front door and dropped her purse on the little table next to it. "I thought we were having soup?" she called to him.

"Had some. Still hungry. What's in the box?"

"Baby supplies. The nurses threw me a shower," Cuddy murmured, pulling off her coat and hanging it up in the closet.

"Sucking up through gifts—typical," he dismissed it and turned back to his meal.

Cuddy came over and checked the pot on the stove, breathing in the delicious scent. She ladled herself a bowl and fished in the silverware drawer for a spoon. "Where's Marlena?"

"In her room, checking the Weather Channel. I'm betting she'll come out and either tell me to stock more wood by the back door, or tell you to get a sweater. Maybe both," House predicted as he watched her come to the table, his gaze taking in her damp hair and preoccupied look.

"The storm is supposed to pass us by," she shrugged, sitting down opposite House at the table. "Where's the dog?"

"Mooch is glued to my left leg under the table. He's got extra-turkey perception, apparently," House complained, but gently. Despite his determination to keep the dog at cane's distance, the puppy persisted in cozying up to him, and House couldn't quite be annoyed about it all the time.

"And all his waiting has been in vain?" She teased before sipping soup. House didn't dignify that with a reply, and turned back to his mashed potatoes, shoveling them in a bit more ferociously. Cuddy ignored him and savored her soup.

After a while, Marlena came out, her expression slightly worried, but smoothing out when she saw Cuddy at the table. "You are home. Goot. Greg, ze television says ze storm has shifted."

"Ze television has been known to get it wrong," he shot back, rolling his eyes a little and mocking her accent. Marlena didn't narrow her eyes or shoot him a dirty look, and this alarmed Cuddy.

"Seriously?" she asked.

Marlena nodded. "Ja. Betveen eight oont fourteen inches of snow, oont into ze low tventies tonight. Manfred is schleeping mit me."

"Let's skip the details on that," House grumbled, finishing his potatoes. "We've got firewood, candles and Ipods. I'll survive."

Cuddy was already pushing herself up from the table. "I'll need to call the hospital and make sure the back-up generators are on stand-by for the ER, the OR and Neonatal . . . "

"They know all that; they've got storm protocols," House reminded her. "Not only can they manage without you, but Khan and Cosovi have the helm. You're on maternity leave."

Slightly deflated, Cuddy made a face at the facts, even as she headed for her purse by the front door. "Then let me put my authorization on record, and remind them to re-salt the ambulance bays."

House glared at her back, then pulled out his Vicodin and tipped a few into his hand, popping them back with the familiarity of long practice. Marlena began to clear the table. She spoke in a low voice to House. "Es könnte jederzeit jetzt geschehen."

"Over my dead body," he replied in a voice just as low. "Don't even think it."

Marlena looked at him dryly. "YOU came early."

"And that was the LAST time THAT ever happened," House shot back firmly. "Guaranteed."

Marlena Farber rolled her eyes a little, watched him carry his plate to the sink, and then lumber off without another word. She waited until she had the kitchen to herself, then sighed. The puppy slipped out from under the table, looking up at her, and she bent to pet him.

00oo00

For once the National Weather Service got it right and then some, with a foot and a half of snow dropping in the mid-state area. The skies stayed cloudy and flurries continued to fall in periodic bursts. Crews were out clearing the highways, but it was slow going; people were being urged to stay at home.

The power went out sporadically, flickering back on after an hour or so, then blacking out once more without warning.

At Blue Brook Dairy the next morning, nobody shoveled the front walk; none of them could do it—not House, with his poor balance, nor Cuddy with her belly nor Marlena with her arthritis. Fortunately, the front door faced south, so the porch itself stayed protected, but beyond the steps lay a vast world of swirling white, broken up only by black leafless trees and a few tall pines.

House peered from the window as Cuddy waddled out to refill the birdfeeders that hung off each corner of the porch. She was in his old corduroy coat and even then, her belly extended beyond the buttoning point, a red knit cap over her dark hair, matching mittens on each hand.

He sipped his coffee wincing approvingly of the heat and strength of the brew. "Her nesting instinct is going to kill us all," he predicted to Marlena, who was whisking eggs in a bowl. "It's gotten to the coasters and doilies stage now. I might as well put myself into a chemical coma until it's all over."

"I sought you vern't vorried."

"Murphy's Law has all the elements in position here; don't think I don't know it," House dourly pointed out. "Fate is snickering and ready to strike."

"Ja, Ja, because it's all about YOU," the older woman grumbled. She would have said more, but Cuddy came in, the cold gusting behind her as she stomped her boots and pulled her mittens off.

"I think my eyelashes froze," she grumbled and began to peel out of the coat. Cuddy stopped with both Marlena and House stared at her. "Okaaaay, the two of you can stop with the suspicious looks. I'm fine."

"Good. Because you're not having the kid here," House told her firmly.

Cuddy gave a cynical little laugh in reply. "Are you out of your mind? Suite 714 in Maternity is reserved already, my bag is in my office and Cecily is on standby—the countdown is eleven days, and we're going to be out of here by then, so just get your Little House on the Prairie fantasy out of your system Greg! I'm popping this baby out in the comfort of a clean, well-lit, drug-filled hospital."

House stared at her for a long, long moment after she finished. "Done?"

Confused, Cuddy blinked, and slowly nodded. House pointed an accusing finger at her rounded belly in silent warning, then moved off, towards his recliner. Cuddy looked at Marlena questioningly; the older woman gave her standard shrug.

"So vhen are ve getting a tree?" she asked brightly.

00oo00

Wilson looked out into the early darkness and held Hanna close to his tee-shirted chest, glad to be in the warmth of the bedroom and not out in the storm. The trees in the front yard wore icicles, and the only light came from the house itself, shining through the windows out onto the smooth snow-covered lawn.

"I think it's safe to say we're snowed in. What do you think, Hanna Banana?"

The baby snuffled in her sleep a little, spine rounded and warm in her long sleeved pink onesie. Her hair was still thin, but coming more definitely in on top now, with the same reddish tints her mother had. Wilson hummed, and carried her slowly around the bedroom, talking softly.

He loved his daughter. Every day it seemed, he learned something new about her; saw some growth or change that startled him even though he knew they were the same developmental stages that all babies everywhere went through. She did all the usual things—burped, had bowel movements, slept, cried, kicked her feet—but simply because it was the first time Wilson had ever had the chance to see these simple actions up close, knowing he'd contributed to creating the child doing them---

It changed everything.

Suddenly the shift of priorities in his life seemed natural, and the high point of his days centered not on the hospital, but home---for the first time in years. Wilson left work on the dot; sometimes early, and his quiet joy smoothed out some of the harder realities of being a cancer specialist.

New fears came forth along with the joy, and Wilson grappled hard with the understanding that with new life came the ever-present fear of loss. That concept, so often seen in others hit him squarely in the chest a week after Hanna's birth, and he woke in a sweat, needing to check on the baby. Her warm breath against his knuckles left him gripping the side of the crib, crying a little in the darkness.

His daughter.

His child.

And Emily. Wilson watched her bloom as she took care of Hanna; all the patience and grace and good humor filling the house and making it something it hadn't been in ages: a home. Pictures on the fridge. Laundry. Fisher-Price music.

The emptinesses were slowly disappearing—not simply the spaces in the house, but in his soul, and James Evan Wilson was falling in love with this new, amazing life.

Not that it was perfect. Hanna had colic at times, and her cries could set off the car alarm in the garage when she was in full rage. Emily had mood swings, and sometimes cried over nothing, or sulked about the weirdest things. Occasionally Wilson had to slip away to the hospital and come back, feeling guilty about leaving his girls alone.

But the good seemed to outshine the bad most of the time, and moments like this, carrying Hanna as she slept, left him feeling completely grounded for the first time in years.

"Hey. Want to bring her out to the fireplace? I've got a good blaze going—might as well spare the heater while we can," Emily called to him from the bedroom door. Wilson turned and smiled at her, shifting Hanna a little.

"Okay. She's pretty out of it right now."

"If we're lucky, she'll last until morning," Emily smiled back. "Good thing we stocked up on diapers."

"Oh yeah. In fact, remind me to buy stock in Pampers." He replied with a little sigh.

Hanna settled into her cradle on one side of the room, and Wilson dropped next to Emily on the sofa, enjoying the warmth rising from the fireplace. Emily fished around under one of the pillows and pulled out the digital camera. "I found your new toy, by the way."

"Oh there it is—" he replied, taking it from her. "Sorry. Mom wanted some pictures of Hanna sleeping."

"To complete the set of Hanna bathing, Hanna eating and Hanna getting changed," Emily teased. "An entire series."

"What can I say? She's a grandmother—they like pictures."

"I'm a better model," Emily mock-pouted. "I can hold still and not have peas smeared on my face."

"I haven't taken any pictures of you, have I?" Wilson realized after a moment. Emily looked at him and smiled.

"You could take one now—"

"Okay. Yeah, I'd like that," He mused thoughtfully, shifting on the sofa to face her. "You'd look nice with the firelight . . . hang on, let me readjust the light meter . . . . " Wilson shifted and stared into the viewfinder, fiddling with the adjustments on the camera. "One . . . Two . . . ThreWhoa!"

Seconds before the flash, Emily had unzipped her blouse and crossed her arms under her chest in a lovely, naughty pin-up girl pose, and the resulting picture was outstandingly eye-catching. Wilson whistled—softly, so as not to wake Hannah. In front of the fire, Oliver looked up for a second, then settled down again.

Wilson looked at Emily and drew in a breath. "Let's . . . take another one . . . " he suggested warmly, his expression less startled and far more aroused. Emily returned the look and peeled off her blouse, languidly stretching her arms up and showing off her splendid, naked chest to perfection in the firelight.

More pictures were taken, and gradually the camera toppled to the floor as the sofa creaked amid groans and slurping sounds.

Oliver got up and left, seeking a quieter place.

00oo00

Cuddy woke up sharply, jolted out of a dream involving bus passes, cherry chocolate pie and her grandmother's house in Passaic. The cramp tightened through her abdomen, and she rubbed her extended belly, checking the bedside clock. Four o seven AM.

Time to pee again. Wearily she rolled out of bed and padded to the john, feeling fat and unlovely. Maybe other women glowed, but for the moment all SHE felt was that some rescue group was going to try and roll her back into the waves soon. Finishing up, she checked herself and realized something wasn't quite right. Carefully she checked the light switch, but the power was still off. Cuddy wiped a bit more, willing herself not to overreact.

Once clean, she washed her hands and waddled back to bed, relaxing a bit once she stretched out. House shifted, and she realized he was awake.

"I'm fine," she lied. It was easier in the dark. He said nothing, and draped an arm around her when she lay back.

"Fuck," he growled. "Fuck."

"Give me a break," Cuddy sighed back wearily. "We've got HOURS, Greg."

He gave a low groan and shifted away, sitting up and reaching for his cane.

"Where are you going?" She hated the way she sounded, asking in a damned needy voice. He paused, not looking over his shoulder.

"Vicodin. I'll be right back. Keep an eye on the clock."

She sighed and hugged his pillow, breathing in his sleep scent. Cuddy forced herself to breathe, slowly and deeply.

When House came back ten minutes later, she was sound asleep again. He squinted in the darkness at her as he stood next to their bed; Cuddy was just a rounded shape curled around his pillow, dark hair spilling out against the sheets. He gripped his cane tightly and muttered under his breath.

"No. No, She-Beast, you cannot, WILL not do this to me, okay? I've pulled my fair share of loathsome and underhanded deeds in my time. I've undercut your authority and challenged you; I've lied and stolen and caused you a shitload of grief and for all that I'm sorry," House growled. "Mostly, anyway. But I FORBID you to go into labor twenty-two miles out from the nearest medical facility. You hear me, Lisa? NO."

He took her quiet breathing as agreement, and tamped his cane once, then laboriously climbed back into bed, readjusting himself and pulling the pillow from her grasp. She rolled away, and House curled around her back, lightly re-draping his arm along her hipbone and gently rubbing her abdomen.

House drowsed, but he didn't sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

By ten that morning, House stood in the solarium, formerly known as the back patio), and stared out at the snow falling steadily outside the glass walls. His inner sense of panic was alternating with a fatalism he recognized from only a few other times in his life, all of them notable. He'd felt this way when he was nine, and his mother had confessed her alcoholism; when he was twenty, and he'd gotten his expulsion letter from Johns Hopkins, and several years ago, when Stacy announced she was leaving him.

It wasn't necessarily a bad feeling. He remembered the relief his mother's confession had brought; the knowledge that he'd been right about her being sick. The Hopkins letter had let him start over fresh in Michigan. And Stacy—well that one had ended up being a smart move for both of them, even if the phantom pain still stung a tiny bit now and then.

House squinted through the snow, trying to see to the falling flakes out towards the koi pond. It was covered over with bubble wrap, and Cuddy had kept the circulation pump on low, just as the books had suggested. The fish were all hibernating on the bottom; he'd looked in on them once or twice earlier in the week.

Footsteps approached him; he looked over at Cuddy, who was rubbing her distended belly as it peeked out under her long-sleeved cranberry tee-shirt. She looked tired.

"Time?" he asked flatly.

"Still seventeen to fifteen minutes apart. Cecily says that could last for the next two days, if that makes you feel any better."

House cast a dubious glance at her tummy and then at her face. Cuddy chose to ignore it and rolled her head, making her neck crackle a bit. "Come check what my dilation is."

"Do I HAVE to?" came his whine, but House was already moving after her, following her into the little elevator. He handed her the cane and pulled the dangling chain loop, carefully hauling the cage up to the second floor, griping the entire time.

"At the very least if we're going to do this, I want the damned power back on!" House snarled. In truth, the physical exertion felt good, but he knew he had a reputation to maintain. Cuddy gave a resigned shrug.

"The crews are doing what they can—" she moved to the bed, untied the sweat pants and pulled them down along with her maternity underwear. Cuddy looked both embarrassed and resigned. "Come on, let's get this done."

House washed his hands in the bathroom, came out, sat on the edge of the bed and gently rested one hand on her nearest bent knee, then slid the other hand up the inside of her silky thigh. Lying back on the bed, Cuddy eyed him suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

"Checking your dilation," House reminded her in a grumpy tone, his touch gentle as he carefully slid his first two fingers into her vagina. "I didn't know memory loss was a symptom of labor."

"You know what I mean—" she grumbled, shifting a little and not quite looking House in the face. "The being considerate part."

"Sor-ree. I could get rougher if you like," he snapped back. "—but Farber would take a saucepan to the back of my head."

Cuddy winced, as much at the imagery as of House's probing. He frowned a little, and withdrew his fingers. "Three to four centimeters, no plug—you probably passed that early this morning. No more food for a while, She-Beast, but I could make you a snow cone."

"Oh ha-ha-ha," came her reply. House flashed her a smirk and went back to wash his hands again.

When he returned, he looked around the bedroom before speaking, this time his voice low and serious. "Okay, let's talk. First time pregnancy. You've been healthy up to this point with no complications so far, so I'd say the odds of a perfectly normal birth were about ninety six percent, give or take the odd point. We're a little limited in terms of being able to monitor the Spawn's heartbeat, but I'll get your stethoscope for what it's worth. No speculum, no pain meds—that is, nothing heavy duty that I'm willing to share, anyway. I'm not worried about you in labor; it's that tiny possibility of problems that concerns me."

Cuddy looked up at him as she rested her back against the headboard, her expression patient but thoughtful. "We're not going to be able to get an ambulance until the roads clear. And there are too many trees around here for a helicopter."

"I know," House nodded. "Which means I'm counting on YOU not to screw this up, Lisa."

"Oh thanks. No pressure," came her grumble back at him. "When was the last time you delivered a baby anyway?"

"Three years ago, when I discovered the Shangri-La that IS the Obstetrics Lounge," House smirked. "Had a ditz of a clinic patient who insisted on me attending. Epidural, eight pound boy."

"So you're not as out of practice as I feared. Yay," came Cuddy's sarcastic observation. She punctuated it with a groan, leaning forward as the contraction hit her.

House watched carefully, and then came forward when it began to ease off. "O-kay, fun as this is, I'm going to go downstairs and have some lunch. See how considerate I'm being, eating out of your line of sight?"

"Okay," Cuddy agreed, unexpectedly. She took in a deep breath and rolled towards the edge of the bed, fishing for her sweats again; House took in the sight of her, round, sweet and pant-less. For a moment, he let the deep pang of love and pride resound through himself, then he cleared his throat.

"I see your heinie—" he sang out, turning for the elevator, "Big, fat and shiny---"

Cuddy's aim with a pillow was still accurate, and he snorted as the fluffy projectile bounced off his shoulder.

00oo00

Marlena baked. It was her one forte in hard times, and she knew that Cuddy would probably appreciate the aromatherapy. It kept her busy, and in the end, when carbohydrates would be needed by all three of them, the bounty would be there.

A gas stove was a blessing at times, as was a well-stocked kitchen. She hummed as she worked, rolling out cookie dough and working the cutters through the fragrant pale expanse on the kitchen table.

Cuddy was wandering around the living room, gardening magazine in one hand, her hair still damp from her shower. House had retreated to his newly created home office, the door ajar; open just enough for a puppy to get in and out.

"Roses for the eeeaaaassssst side," Cuddy groaned to herself, walking from the bookcases around the perimeter of the room as the spasm rolled through her. At this point, the contractions were annoying as hell, simply because they weren't getting any stronger or closer together, but they were enough to break her concentration. For years she'd been hearing about the 'hurry up and wait' aspect of labor, and had laughed.

Now that she was living it, it wasn't nearly as hilarious.

Slowly Cuddy settled herself down on the piano bench. Her earlier excitement had abated a bit, but the apprehension was still there, despite a reassuring call from Cecily a few hours earlier.

"_You're both going to do fine. Snowplows are out right now, and if worst comes to worst, Greg will be able to deliver your dumpling just fine."_

"_I want my reserved room,"_ Cuddy had whimpered. _"I want my view."_

"_You still might get them, Lisa. Keep monitoring the contractions and movement. Call me if there's any change."_ And with that, Cecily Howard had hung up.

Restlessly, Cuddy studied the gardening magazine once more, looking at the beautiful layout and trying to imagine it out beyond the solarium. Concentrating was difficult, and it took effort for her to focus on the potential.

She was . . . excited. The culmination of the better part of the last year was about to be reached, and here she was, facing the challenge. Cuddy had always loved challenges in general and this one specifically—she'd studied and worked and in her own quiet, strong moments even prayed a little, in the silent inner way women had since time immemorial.

Two names circled in her mind; names she hadn't yet shared with House, but Marlena approved of them both: Caleb for a boy and Lily for a girl. Both sounded fine paired with the last name of House, and neither could be twisted into some weird nickname, which had been one of her milder worries. They might sound a little old-fashioned, but both names appealed to her.

Her stomach growled, and Cuddy sighed, wishing she could have more than ice chips. She'd already been to the bathroom several times, glad enough to have emptied her digestive tract earlier---the last thing she wanted to have happen was to pass anything else while giving birth. It had been known to occur, and Cuddy thought if it happened to her, that would be her own supreme humiliation.

Another cramp rippled painfully through her, and startled, she looked around the living room for a clock. The one over the door to the kitchen read three forty.

When had the last one been? Slightly alarmed, Cuddy pushed herself off of the bench and tried to think . . . the earlier one had been about seven minutes ago? It was hard to remember, especially with the sudden squeeze radiating from the small of her back to the front. She gave a groan. Puppy looked up at her doubtfully. Cuddy shuffled for the elevator, and paused, half-bent over, clinging to the metal mesh door, her slender fingers hooking into it for support.

Twelve hours in now, this was it.

True commitment.

If she took the elevator up, then she was stuck with giving birth at home; even if an ambulance came in the next few hours, they wouldn't be able to get her down from the second floor. Cuddy glanced over her shoulder out the windows of the living room, feeling a hard pang of panic and despair. Her nostrils flared a little.

No drugs; just breathing, pushing, and Greg.

"Do over," she whimpered softly. "Please?"

At that moment, Marlena came out of the kitchen, and seeing Cuddy, hurried over, her cane thumping loudly. She slipped an arm around her, enveloping them both with the scent of gingerbread. "Lisa? ist es zeit?"

Cuddy weakly nodded, struggling against the contraction. Mrs. Farber pulled on the elevator chain, and spoke soothingly. "Zere is zoft plastic under ze sheets. Ve vill get you into bed oont relaxing . . . " Keeping up a soft little monologue, Marlena rode up with Cuddy to the second floor and supported her over to the bed. Cuddy peeled off her sweat bottoms again, but kept her tee-shirt on and climbed into bed, wobbling a little, her long hair spilling out around her. She let Marlena feel her forehead and check her pulse, then closed her eyes and tried to remember her breathing.

Within a few minutes, she heard the elevator descend and rise again, and when Cuddy opened her eyes, House was there in his flannel button down, tee shirt and jeans, iPod buds draped on his shoulder, his expression annoyed . . . . All but his eyes, which studied her sharply as he came over to her. "Time to check your hoo-hoo again."

"F-f-fun—" Cuddy grunted, pushing down the sheet and spreading her knees. The contraction had subsided, but the residual pain was still there in the form of a dull achiness. House pulled on a latex glove and inserted his fingers, his other hand gently cupping on the swell of abdomen; Cuddy watched his face carefully for a change of expression.

She saw him swallow.

He looked up and his glance met hers, his blue clear gaze unguarded and nervous; in that moment, Cuddy loved House so much that the feeling welled up inside her in a contraction of a different sort--painful and sweet and just as powerful as any physical one.

Cuddy smiled, very softly.

"This isn't NEARLY as much fun with my fingers." He muttered, glancing away.

She gave a short laugh. "I agree, totally. Dilation?"

"Up to six . . . nearly seven," House told her gruffly, shifting to pick up the stethoscope from the nightstand. When he donned them, Cuddy suppressed another snort and he rolled his eyes. "What?"

"Sorry . . . I just so rarely see you with the . . . trappings, I guess. You never wear a lab coat, and barely even get to the latex gloves moosssssssoohhhhhhh" her words trailed off in a hard chuff, and she gripped the mattress, making the plastic under the sheet crinkle. House shifted, pressing the head of the stethoscope to her distended abdomen, his expression sharp.

"Because I look terrible in latex gloves moosssssssoohhhhhhh. Breathe—" he ordered gently, shifting the stethoscope. Cuddy concentrated and inhaled to a count in her head, trying not to look worried. After a moment, House pulled back and gave a cautious rub to her belly, his voice low, and meant only for her. "You're fine. Right on track."

"Bedside manner too?" she teased back, but caught his hand for a moment and squeezed it. "Thanks."

House said nothing, just stared at their hands for a moment. He kept his head low, and Cuddy felt an impish urge within her to lighten the moment. She cleared her throat. "This isn't going to get you out of clinic."

He managed a half-smirk and rose off the bed. "Two words Doctor Cuddystein—family leave."

"As IF," she replied, but another contraction squeezed through her, making her round her shoulders and grit her teeth. She huffed and puffed a little, riding out the crest of it, feeling a little more confident now. Like cramps. Really strong ones, but nothing she hadn't dealt with before. This was a . . . familiar kind of pain, and that made it less frightening.

House scowled and paced a little, unable to leave, but not willing to come closer to the bed while she groaned and finally relaxed. He turned and pointed his cane at her. "Breathing?"

"Sat in on some of the Lamaze . . . " she assured him with a roll of her eyes. "Relax."

"Coach?" he persisted, cocking his head.

Cuddy shook hers. "Didn't think I'd need one—I was SUPPOSED to be in the hospital. Don't worry . . . I've done enough yoga to . . . getthe . . . hangof itTTTTTT---" she grunted again, curling forward once more.

House spun and limped to the elevator, yelling down the shaft. "Marlena! Need you up here NOW."

The clank of the elevator being pulled up melded with the rattling, and when the car was up, Marlena Farber handed House several clean towels, a bucket of steaming water, more latex gloves and a pair of scissors. House took them without comment and carried them to the bed, then with Marlena's help, dragged his nightstand over next to the end of the bed and laid the items out. "Wash hands—" he directed her over his shoulder.

Marlena moved to the bathroom to do as instructed; House motioned with his chin to Cuddy, his expression serious now. "Scoot down to the end of the bed, Lees—"

Clumsily she did, feeling another wave building through her. House pulled over the tuffet stool from her vanity and sat on it, pulling on gloves. "Okay slacker, time to start REALLY pushing."

"You asshole," Cuddy muttered, true annoyance flaring up now. He was a fine one to talk, having spent most of the day holed up in his office air-guitaring. She glared at him over her belly, but his attention was elsewhere as he slipped his fingers into her once more, gently probing.

"Oh yeah, we are ON the launch pad now," came his murmur, "about nine, almost fully effaced. Next contraction, give it a push—"

Cuddy did, grunting with the effort.

00oo00

She was so damned tired; right now Cuddy was in that woozy place between chronic pain and chronic fatigue, drifting on the hard swells of contractions and nearly falling asleep between them. The light outside the windows had faded as more snow fell and sunset approached. The battery operated CD player cranked out something quiet of the Ferranti and Teischer type, and Cuddy just wanted it all to be OVER.

"Come on, She-Beast, PUSH! Geez, don't make me go in there and fetch the Demon Spawn myself!" House growled tiredly. He was still on the vanity tuffet down between her knees. Marlena held Cuddy's thin hands.

"Push hard, Lisa liebling, very hard," came the soothing litany. Cuddy bit back a sob.

"I AM pushing!"

"Not like you MEAN it," House snapped. "Come ON, I'm missing Survivor for this you know."

Cuddy gritted her teeth. She rounded her shoulder and sucked in a deep breath, then poured every ounce of energy into pushing, her formidable focus narrowing down into the moment. House gave a low rumble of approval that she barely heard.

"Okay, crowning now, keep going . . . damn it, Lisa PUSH!" he ordered. She gave a sobbing breath and did once more.

Things happened fast after that. House carefully caught and guided the white, slippery little figure and shifted left, setting the bundle on the towels there. Blood and placenta slid off the end of the bed onto the other towels laid down between his feet, but he paid no attention to it, focusing on the slightly squalling baby as he carefully wiped the nose and eyes clean with a corner of wet towel, then moved for the scissors.

House hesitated only a second, then snipped the cord and clipped the little stump with one of Cuddy's hair clips, then efficiently wrapped the baby up on one of the receiving blankets, blinking hard. He had to blink; his vision kept getting blurred for some damned reason. House noted that Farber was soothing Cuddy, wiping her face and kissing her forehead, murmuring all the things Lisa needed to hear.

All the things just in his throat the moment.

House picked up the baby and looked into the little red face, the little toothless mouth opening at him, eyes still closed, but a flush of pink clear on each cheek.

"Let's go say hi to your mom, Hell-Cub," House murmured. He carefully shifted off the tuffet, rising stiffly, baby against his chest, and limped around the edge of the mattress to Cuddy, who looked at them both in the low light of snowy twilight.

"Greg—" she sighed in a husky tone, holding out her arms. House gently handed her the bundle, reluctant to pass it to her.

"So what's her name?" he asked, tiredly fishing for his Vicodin from his pocket.

Cuddy took the baby, resting the blanket-wrapped infant against her chest and holding her daughter close. "Lily. Lily Marlena House."


End file.
